Incognito Devotion
by aerorolo
Summary: Fic Request. Years after Sherlock's fall, John Watson bumps into a familiar man, who calls himself Benedict Cumberbatch.
1. Chapter 1

**Dreaming: Hello again, guys! Seems I couldn't stay away. Anna came to me about a request/idea and I started spewing things I thought of, and the next thing I knew, we were at it with another collab, and ohh, boy, was it so much fun! I hope you guys like this one as much as we did while writing it! XD**

**Aerorolo: Hey hey heyyy~ We are back 8D I am super excited to present you another collab fic that Ari and I did! It was so awesome writing with her again ;_; So much fun! We took turns on writing chapters like last time, with me writing the first chapter. Like what Ari said above, hope you enjoy it as much as we did! **

Prompt: _I would LOVE to see a one shot of disguised!Sherlock living as 'Benedict Cumberbatch', visiting John and hunting down Moriarty's henchmen. Bonus brownies for gingerbatch~_

Requested by: _umqraisntmorsecode_

* * *

><p>Chapter 1<p>

* * *

><p>Restless.<p>

It's the best word to describe him right now. _Infuriated_ is another.

_Restless_, only because he can't stand staying indoors, tucked and hidden away by Mycroft. However, that isn't the only problem or reason.

Staying indoors sometimes feels like a tedious game of sit-and-wait. The sitting: to laze about with only loneliness for company, and doing the necessary things at home: eat, sleep, shower, research (but he hardly does what the average person does in his or her own home. Eating and sleeping aren't necessary for lengthy periods of time for him). And then the waiting: to wait and hear from Lestrade on any new cases, or to wait for John to come home, or something similar.

But this is hardly the case nowadays.

No one knows he's alive, expect for a very few people.

Yet he continues to sit and wait. As if a miracle will happen. As if he _could_ simply fulfil someone else's expressed miracle one day.

He finds himself quite anxious, over the past two and a half years, after having no contact whatsoever with his dear and only friend of his. It's all to do with protection, to keep one safe (in this case, his close friends); and for this reason, he has to resist rushing back to Baker Street in a hurry.

Adding to the Mycroft-keeping-him-locked-up problem, he finds his older brother checking up on him almost every day. He would feel rather perturbed by Mycroft's watchful eyes, but, however, he's used to it after years of cameras in the flat and months of this already, and so he waves his brother away as Mycroft asks him how his day was.

Perhaps, he's anxious, too, because he's awaiting news. Good or bad, it doesn't matter. In a way, he longs for communication from the outside world. His brother makes an effort to speak with him face to face, but only to update him on his chase for Moriarty's henchmen (Mycroft, once he discovered Sherlock's plans, arrested him "for his own good" and overtook the task himself with his government lackeys working under him, and it's annoying, really, that Mycroft has to be such an overprotective git with a control freak complex) and occasionally to inform him what John has been up to.

And there it is.

The reason why he feels so infuriated: _John_.

He doesn't feel certain rage at the doctor, but rather himself, in a way. Actually, yes, precisely that: he's furious at himself. John, beneath it all, is truly the reason why he feels restless. John is the reason why he feels so angered at his position now. For if he had only informed him of his absurd feelings for the other, then maybe things would have changed.

_Hardly_, he reminds himself honestly.

He feels enraged because he misses John. He longs for John's company and voice and daily musings, and every time he thinks he's able to voice it to Mycroft, he shuts up on the spot. What would it matter if he informed him of these feelings, anyway? It's not like his brother would do anything to help. He'd rather _dis_courage it than _en_courage it, as a matter of fact. Possibly because it will be less heart-breaking if he never returns into John's life.

Because, Mycroft would think (and sometimes Sherlock does, too), _feelings_ for John?

_How absurd._

And now, suddenly, the room feels colder than it did before. He could have sworn he closed the window not too long ago. It's as if the weather is approving of his mixed up thoughts and feelings, choosing to reflect it accordingly.

He turns to the side, pulling his robe around him, curling up on the couch.

"Sherlock?"

He releases a heavy breath, not bothering to look up at the newcomer. He hears a bit of rustling as if his brother is carrying a plastic bag, and it's placed on the coffee table.

"I hope you had some lunch, dear brother." Mycroft seats himself in one of the armchairs. He frowns upon the state of the living room. Photographs and articles, all pertaining to Moriarty's henchmen, plastered everywhere on the walls, and some scattered on the coffee table. And in some photographs, a thick red mark is crossed over the face. He's keeping track on how many henchmen they have left, clearly. "You should _really _clean up this mess, Sherlock." He picks an invisible fluff off his trousers.

"What do you want?" the detective demands, wasting no time. He refuses to face the other.

"I only came to check up on you."

"Like you don't do that enough already," Sherlock sarcastically remarks. "I found your camera behind the couch this morning!"

"Sitting around all day is rather dull." Mycroft crosses a leg over the other. "You should get some fresh air once in a while."

"Oh? Like I can obviously do that?" Sitting up now, with a dark expression. "How long is it going to take before Moriarty's henchmen are taken down, and I'm released? It cannot be that hard!"

"I have the best people working on it!" Sherlock rolls his eyes and Mycroft glares back as he continues, "No need to get impatient, Sherlock. John is doing fine, if that's what you're worried about." He scoffs.

Sherlock clenches his jaw rightly as he stands. "I said _nothing_ about John, nor did I ask anything about him!"

"Perhaps I should get you to see a doctor..." Mycroft comments quietly as he peers around the room.

"I am not sick!"

"Perhaps not physically, no," Mycroft says mostly to himself, and if Sherlock hears, he ignores it. Louder, his brother adds, "Then I insist you go get some fresh air," he says simply. "I'll have eyes on you, so don't get any reckless ideas. But you can wear one of your disguises and see for yourself how John is doing."

"Once again, I said nothing about John..." Sherlock sits back down again, dropping his voice.

"Sherlock..." Realising his younger brother's eyes are growing dark and cold, he places his hands on his lap, eyeing the detective. "You haven't shaved in a long while..." Mycroft notes, examining the other. "Please tell me you haven't been sulking for this long. It's been nearly three years, now."

"I'm not sulking." He brings his knees to his chest. "Merely thinking."

"And yet you haven't shaved."

"Problem?"

Mycroft stands from the armchair, pocketing his hands. "I hope you eat soon. I don't want you to starve." He cocks a brow and gestures to the bag on the table. "I brought you strawberries. I know how much you used to like them as a child."

Sherlock drops his gaze to the bag. "I hate strawberries," he murmurs.

"It's not too long before we catch the rest of them." Mycroft heads to the door. "And do get some fresh air. You possibly could have cabin fever."

"Cabin fever is for the weak."

"Which you will become if you keep staying inside. I know I am confining you, but not to the extent you're making it seem."

Sherlock huffs crossly. "This isn't just about me getting 'cabin fever' and fresh air as a cure. You're encouraging me to go outside to sneak a peak at John, for my own viewing pleasure, aren't you?"

Mycroft places a hand on the doorknob. He takes a good look at his brother. Instead of answering directly, he merely says, "With that thick stubble you've got going on, coupled with, perhaps, some hair dye, even I wouldn't think you were Sherlock Holmes, merely a look-alike in the eyes." And with that, he leaves, clearing saying a resounding 'yes' to his brother. He knows for sure the strawberries will have been eaten by the time of his next arrival.

Sherlock sits for a moment or two, rethinking. He can't just wait for Mycroft to tell him when they've finally gotten rid of Moriarty's henchmen. And if he really wants to see John (which, in fact, he _does_), then he _should_ take some sort of action, at least. There's no room to feel angered or frustrated any longer.

Perhaps seeing John would lighten his spirits. But then the thought of John getting harmed just because of his selfish reasons stops him from attempting to catch a glimpse at the doctor. However, he knows his brother is keeping tabs on John and that he's safe and sound, and what's more, he _will _be disguised, if only to prevent panic in the media, as well as to keep John safe…

Sherlock brushes his fingers across his chin and notices Mycroft is right about the stubble. He passes the living room, glancing at his reflection.

_Ah! An experiment!_ He almost missed the excited bounce in his step from what feels like ages ago. He's more himself, now, just at the idea of it. He heads to his allotted bedroom to get changed.

In a swift movement, Sherlock leaves the confined space, heading to the nearest supermarket.

He knows he can always find another time to consume those strawberries.

XXX

At first, it feels like a daft idea, but Sherlock still wants to experiment. He needs it to work. If he's capable to pulling such a disguise – in order to see John or if possible, speak with him – then leaving the stubble on and dying his hair ginger to match (he was never very fond of his split-genes) won't hurt at all.

After Sherlock is done with his hair, he gives it a bit of a trim, making it completely different to his usual messy and dismayed hairstyle. He's pleased with himself when he examines himself in the mirror.

He spends a few more days inside his flat, clearing his wardrobe and buying some new clothes. Mycroft visits him at the end of the week, perplexed at his brother's current state.

"You didn't eat the strawberries..." He calls out, knowing Sherlock is running around the flat doing odds and ends for his own reasons. The bag was never touched or removed from the coffee table, thus leaving it in a terrible state that even Mycroft can't stomach.

"Not hungry." Sherlock says as he enters the living room. Mycroft takes a second to realise who the person is in front of him. He gapes at his younger brother and Sherlock nods, deducing his brother's reaction. "Now don't look at me like that, Mycroft."

"You _actually _changed your appearance?"

"I must dash now." He stares again at himself in the mirror for a quick moment.

"He'll know it's you in seconds." Mycroft says this as a test, Sherlock knows, because he was the one to suggest this in the first place.

"If I was actually 'Sherlock'," the detective grins.

"You're willingly to _act _differently as well?" Mycroft raises a brow.

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock snaps, heading to the door. "Don't bother waiting for me."

"I'll keep a watchful eye..."

He feels the adrenaline like a sweet addiction he's finally picked up again as he pushes the front door open. He feels the chilly spring breeze brush past him, only adding to the rush and thrill of it all, and he hails a taxi.

Like heading to a crime scene, Sherlock feels the excitement bubbling inside him. However, it isn't even a crime scene, nor going to Scotland Yard; it's simply going to see John. A smile creeps onto his features as he reaches his destination.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

><p>"Have a good rest of the day, Dr. Watson," greets a nurse as John passes by. He nods idly and murmurs a soft 'you, too,' under his breath. He doesn't much feel up to being friendly today; he's had too many patients to count, and he's tuckered out.<p>

Sighing to himself, John notices the rain outdoors and curses himself for forgoing the umbrella today. He flips up the collar of his jacket and enters the downpour, grateful for the lack of wind in the air. He keeps his head bowed and his shoulders hunched, the rain cool on his neck, but thankfully not dripping down into his shirt. He feels warm at the core and slowly ground cold around the edges, and it's a bit more than distracting.

But he only has a ways more to walk before he's home, or some semblance of it. He had to get a new flat about two or so years ago, a smaller and cheaper one closer to his job. It's nothing like the flat he's lived in for a year and a half beforehand, but it works for his needs. It beats having to move in with his sister or in with a complete stranger; Lord knows he can't do _that _again, and not so soon with either party.

John has barely known how to function without his old flatmate. Since the man committed suicide (and John shudders every time he thinks of it, of that day), John has felt horribly imbalanced, as if one of the legs he's been standing on was torn from his body, leaving him with a bloody and stumped limb in its place, and less footing to keep upright on.

(It's a morbid metaphor, he knows, but it's the only way he can begin to describe the empty feeling he's had for nearly three years now.)

John tugs his collar up again and trudges onward, turning a corner on the sidewalk, head still bowed. But as he does so, he bumps into somebody and loses his step. He stumbles back, and the person he ran into catches him by the arm.

"Oh! I'm so, so sorry; I didn't see you rounding the corner! I'm so clumsy; I blame my height. Are you all right, mate?" and it's a man's voice, low and soft and inviting, and just a tad bit familiar. The man releases him and dusts some of the rain from John's shoulders. "Again, I'm so sorry. But it is hard to see in this rain, isn't it?" and the man chuckles airily, embarrassed.

John glances up, blinking rain from his eyelashes and swiping a hand over his face. He does a double-take; there is a man with fringe covering his forehead, slightly curly and utterly ginger, with traces of sideburns on either side of his long face, his jaw unshaven and eyes an unnameable colour; not quite green, not quite blue, decidedly both but too gray to be either, like, oh, what do the artists call it? Like the sea, like _glasz. _Everything about him is to very unlike Sherlock, but there is something about him that reminds John solely of Sherlock, and it unnerves him and intrigues him at the same time.

"It's alright," John says breathlessly. He can't seem to pull his eyes away from this stranger. He's oddly drawn to him (and it could be because of the odd thing about his eyes or his cheekbones or his height that reminds John of Sherlock, although he can't be entirely sure). "Do I – Have we met before?"

The stranger frowns. "I should think not. At least, you don't seem familiar," he says. He smiles, and no, that smile is so very un-Sherlock that John must be imagining all the similarities. "What's your name? I'm Ben. Benedict Cumberbatch." He holds out his hand to shake, smiling that gentle, friendly, easy way again.

"What an unusual –" but he cuts himself off and laughs. Sherlock had an unusual name, too, and really, names in general are funny things, so he isn't one to judge (his middle name is _Hamish _of all things, after all. A very old-fashioned name, like 'Benedict'). "I'm John Watson. Er, well, _Doctor _John Watson, I suppose, if you're specific with introductions. Guess I might as well put that out there."

"Are you trying to impress me?" Ben says with a lifted eyebrow and a quirky smile. "Because it's working," and he chuckles, and John flushes a bit because, _oh, wait, _does this all constitute as flirting? If it is, he isn't meaning to do it; he's not – well, he insists often on being _not _gay, and really, right now, he just wants a friend, that's all. Just someone to chat and drink with.

"Erm, well, no – I didn't mean to, I'm just addressed as Dr. Watson all day, you know?" and he makes an embarrassed smile and chuckle of his own. God, he's hitting it off strangely with this man. But he hopes this isn't just a one-time meeting; he's curious about Benedict, and really, if it were just a bump-and-apologise meeting, they wouldn't have swapped names, so John hopes this is something more.

"I would imagine," smiles Benedict. "Anyway, I'm sorry for running into you. See you around, yeah?"

John doesn't quite want him to dash off just yet. "I, um – You know, it's really my fault, not looking where I was going, not yours. You shouldn't apologise to me. Ah, actually, you don't look too good; are you all right? You seem a bit… washed-out. Have you eaten much recently?"

Benedict gives an odd smile that seems both touched and something else. "I'm fine, really. Actually, do you – is it too forward if I offer to buy you a hot drink? It's cold, standing out here, even if it's stopped raining." And his presence is so very distracting and simultaneously comforting that John doesn't realise it's ceased raining until Ben pointed it out.

"Oh, no, not at all! I would like that very much," John says, utterly swept away. And really, he can't stop _staring, _and he can only attribute it to Ben's uncanny, albeit utterly separate, looks in comparison to John's former friend's. "I was just on my way home, actually, and I'd rather not put you out even for a drink, so if you'd like, I'll make us some coffee instead. Unless – unless you have somewhere you need to be soon?"

"Sounds wonderful," Ben concurs readily enough. "I've no prior engagements," he says. "I was only out for a walk to kill my cabin fever. Raining or not, I felt like a caged bird!" And he laughs again, moving to follow John as they start walking together. "It's very hospitable of you to invite me over for a cuppa, thank you. I still feel ruddy awful for smacking into you like that. It wasn't on purpose, of course, but…" and something in his tone says the opposite, but that's ridiculous, because Ben seems too nice to walk around looking for people to collide into.

"No problem," John says with one of his more charming smiles. "It's this way, right up there, you see?" and he points toward a building not half a block away. "It's not much, but I can't afford more."

"Even as a doctor?" Benedict questions, sounding slightly concerned. When John glances over at him, a few clinging droplets of rain are on the ends of Ben's fringe, threatening to drip into his eyes or onto the bridge of his nose, and John looks away, not entirely sure why he's noticing such a minor thing.

"Even as a doctor," John sighs, nodding his head. "You see, some time ago, I had to give up a flat I shared with my best mate, and near the end there, it was more or less taken from me because I couldn't keep up with the rent on my own. So I went into debt a bit and lost the flat."

Benedict looks away, as if uncomfortable. "This friend of yours… why did he leave you alone to pay for the flat?"

"He passed away," John whispers, and Ben sends him a pained look, and John quickly waves a hand and tries to force a smile. "Don't pity me, please. Last thing I want is more pity."

"Of course. No, I'm not pitying you, I'm just… that's awful, John. I'm sorry," Ben replies gently, and he lightly touches John's shoulder for a brief second, and John didn't realise how comforting a simple touch from a stranger can be until Ben did it.

"Yes, well. I tried to keep the flat as long as I could after he passed, to preserve his memory and all. But it's been over two and a half years since then, and I could only hold it for about a year until I had to leave it; no money and all. Not on my own, and not without a steady job. Could focus on one or land a position until recently. But I have things worked out now." He glances up. "Here we are," and he enters the flat with a key, has Ben follow him up a couple levels, and then they enter John's.

It's small, and a bit too straight-lined; all neutral colours and basic patterns. The only homey thing is an armchair in the corner, near a small bookcase and tall reading lamp. It's red-print with a forest green-plaid blanket draped over its back, and beside it, on the other side of the lamp, there is a mismatched black chair, faux leather, looking incredibly _un_-homey and odd with the rest of the flat.

But it is, generally, an honourable and humble abode for a an equally honourable, humble man. Quaint, but charming, in a nutshell.

It's only those chairs that seem out of place, John knows, so he isn't surprised when Benedict "casually" brings it up once they sit down for coffee at the kitchen table, which has full view of the living room.

"Those armchairs… they don't really fit, do they?" and he has a curious expression on his face, one John can't place because he doesn't know the man very well yet. "Not that I'm judging your decorating, honest! They just seem a bit… colourful and out-of-place with the rest of the lot, that's all. Sorry," he adds almost as an afterthought.

John smiles sadly. "No, it's fine. I thought you might bring them up; anyone who visits always does. But then again, the people who visit are mostly people who knew me before I got this place. Those chairs are…" and he sighs curtly. "They're from my old flat. The black one was my friend's. The patterned one is mine. I couldn't part with them. They… hold too much sentimental value. And, well. I didn't want to spend more money on furniture than I had to. My bed and wardrobe are the same, so's that coffee table over there; I thought I might as well pay for movers and keep what I can."

"I would have done the same," Benedict says quietly. "Cheaper that way, I suppose. And sentiment in something like that is… comforting sometimes."

John looks down at his coffee and hums a half-breath that is akin to a small, forlorn chuckle.

"What?" Ben says, cocking his head at peer over at John. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, it's… you reminded me of him for a second there." He leans back in his chair and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Ben; I just met you and already I'm inviting you to my flat for coffee. I must be lonelier than I thought. You must think me a pathetic old sod."

"Not at all," Benedict says quickly, looking at John in earnest. "I think you're interesting. It's not every day I bump into someone who's kind enough to take the blame for an accident that was clearly all my doing, and concerned enough to ask whether I'd eaten. Truth is, I haven't been eating much lately, no. I'm a starving artist, as it were."

"Really? That's incredible! Do you paint, draw? Or are you the sculpture and model type?"

Benedict laughs. "No, nothing like that. I'm an actor. Theatre and film, but mostly theatre. I can't get into many films, and the few I've been in are mostly of the independent sort that aren't viewed by a crowd. I was actually doing more than taking a walk; I was looking for flyers. Some of the auditions for the best plays are on flyers, you know."

"Oh, that's fantastic! No, I didn't know, but that's amazing. I would love to see you act. If you ever get a part in something, you'll tell me about which show it is, won't you?" John says with a brighter smile than he was wearing not five minutes ago.

"Naturally," Ben grins. "I don't have many friends who are willing to come see my shows. They aren't the theatre types."

"Well, neither am I, really, but I appreciate hard work in any form it comes in," John admits. "And I know the famous and classic plays, anyway, so I have enough theatre knowledge not to be a complete ignoramus."

And this makes Benedict laugh heartily, John joining him after a moment. They finish off their coffee, and as they do so, Ben requests, "Do you mind swapping mobile numbers? I'd like to keep in touch so we can do this again. And in case I get a part or need a doctor's advice, of course," he winks.

John nods, smiling. "Yeah, 'course. Here," and they take each other's phones and add themselves as a contact before switching back again. "You don't have to go just yet if you don't want to," John mentions mutedly, and he knows he's being pathetic now if he wasn't already before. But he craves friendship, the company of another, and he can't lie and say that Benedict isn't potentially a stand-in for Sherlock. Because while he lacks the wit and social awkwardness and all around personality, he does sort of _resemble _him, and John is a bit of a sucker for it.

"No, I really must," Ben sighs, "I've overstayed my welcome, I fear."

"That should be up to me to decide," John says. "But, no, you're only being polite. I'm annoying now. Sorry about that. You go; I've some reading to catch up on anyhow."

"You're not annoying," Ben frowns. "I've been just as lonely as you, as fate would have it, and I do enjoy your company, John. But while I had no prior engagements, I do have one for tonight. So I do, genuinely, have to dash. But I'll text you sometime soon for another meet, okay?" and he gives a reassuring smile.

"Yes, okay," John agrees, rising to meet Benedict and help him into his jacket. His hair had smoothed as it dried out to a gentle ripple, not quite a wave, and his eyes are soft in the yellow dim of John's kitchen. John has to force himself not to notice, because it's a bit unlike him to notice such things about anyone without breasts. He clears his throat. "See you again."

"Goodbye," Ben says cheerfully, and he's out the door.

Once John closes it behind him, he wonders what sort of friend he's just made.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so very much for taking an interest of our fic. Ari and I really appericate it! Hope you enjoy the rest, thank you for reading~ xx**

* * *

><p>Chapter 3<p>

* * *

><p>When Sherlock makes it back to his flat, he wants to collapse. Instead, he notes a new bag of strawberries on the coffee table and a smile creeps onto his face. Mycroft must have replaced them after what he witnessed not so long ago; and like he predicted, his brother is nowhere to be seen. He's possibly attending to some government-related business. Or he's about to message the detective now.<p>

_Thought you'd be hungry. – _MH

And there it is. Because, of course, he's keeping a watchful eye out for his little brother.

Sherlock ignores it and claps onto the plastic box full of strawberries and heads to the kitchen. After running it under the water, he nests on the couch and his phone goes off again;

_Had fun, brother? –_ MH

Sherlock scoffs and continues to consume his food. When his phone vibrates another incoming text, his eyes widens at the sight.

_Hey, Ben; it's me, John. I know this may sound too forward, since we only met today. I really do enjoy your company. I just wanted to know if you're free tomorrow, just to have lunch? – _JW

His fingers brush against the keyboard of his phone, typing a few words and then he stops. Sherlock licks his lips, analysing the message.

_He contemplated whether to send the message or not, after I left, _Sherlock thinks, taking a bite out of another strawberry. _He's tired. Hasn't slept properly in days. Why? You can see the small bags underneath his eyes. Nightmares, possibly. He had sleeping pills on the kitchen counter. He had intended to take some, but decided not to the previous night. He woke up late this morning, judging by the state of his armchair. You can see how he sat in it, because the shape and form of his body leaving a noticeable impression. The rest of the living room was neat and tidy. Untouched for a while. A few days. There were some signs and indication that no one has been around expect for him. So, then, he hardly has company in his flat. Doesn't want to stay with his sister and _definitely_ doesn't want to live with a new flatmate. _

Sherlock feels a lump in his throat, recalling back to John's words about the armchairs.

_No visitors, no signs of him cleaning the dust off the lamp or on top of the bookcase, and no fresh indents in my old chair. So where else could he have sat down? The armchair, yes. _His _armchair. He'd be reading, to get his mind off something else and maybe to forget his terrible dreams. Note, there was a book on the chair, he was in a rush, he probably doesn't know what page he was on, because he so happened to drift off to sleep. Cup of tea on the coffee table, unfinished, left there, cold, since last night. He forgot to put it in the sink because he woke up late. He also forgot to check the weather today, because he would have brought an umbrella with him if he had woken up on time. He still managed to get a quick shower and change in a good amount of minutes. He forgot to button up the third button of his shirt, still unnoticed by him even by the time I left, and his hair was untidy. Hadn't had a haircut in a few weeks. He had a bit of stubble going on, showing that he hasn't shaved in a couple days (maximum), either. _

_He's exhausted from work. Had his head bowed down because he didn't want the rain to get in his way of his vision and because of exhaustion; eventually bumping into me._ He frowns slightly. He corrects himself,_ Bumped into me? More like _I_ collided into _him_._ _But John is the same as always; __blames himself and his own exhaustion for the incident._

Sherlock hums to himself. His strawberries are already forgotten._ He lost his footing when we collided, signs of his mind slow to catch up, reflexes dulled, considerably because of a tiring and long day. When he saw me, his face lit up. He was unsure if I was real or not. He most likely, for a split second, though it was truly me; well, of course it _is_, but he thinks me dead, and therefore took the disguise exceptionally well. _

Sherlock sighs a sort of lament. _The way I acted in front of him indicates and, to him, acts as proof that it isn't me, so he has to believe my looks a mere coincidence. Since I resemble his supposedly deceased friend, he takes a liking to me, to 'Benedict.' Feels comfortable. He hesitates when he speaks to me, but he knows he can trust me automatically because of the resemblances, and thus brings it all full circle to the text, and his hesitancy to send it; because even John must be aware that his only wishes to see me again because I resemble, in his mind, his closest companion, and he's mourning me and craves my company, so he settles for a stranger who looks similar to me._

'_Ben,' as you now know me, reminds you of me, and you know it hurts just to look at me, but you carry on, even request, humbly, more of my company..._

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and frowns. He stares blankly at his phone, ignoring the throbbing pain in his chest. Guilt? Or is it longing?

He shakes his head.

It's been so long since he's received a text from someone other than Mycroft. And it feels slightly overwhelming, especially considering how his meeting with the doctor went (which was unexpectedly well). John could have punched him if he fully recognized him, or simply stalked away because he could have thought he was seeing things, but instead… Instead, he took the advantage of Sherlock's appearance _and _presence, both with such kindness.

His heart races, and Sherlock wants to smack himself. Why is he getting so worked up over this? Wasn't this supposed to be the result anyway? Isn't this just an experiment?

Sherlock clutches onto the device, reading the text, over and over again. It feels surreal.

There is so much temptation to write: '_It's me, Sherlock. I'm alive. I'm sorry._' He wants to write it down, but he has to carry on with this. He needs to resume his experiment. He has to keep John safe. Yes – John's life is still in his hands, regardless of his fake death. And, just as importantly, he needs to break this to John slowly, at the right moment, once everything is settled and finalised.

He hugs himself, his eyes never tearing away from the screen.

Things will start to get complicated after he sends this message, and he knows that he's taking a risk already. After all, the main idea was to see John. To be at his side again. And he's slightly thankful (although he'll never admit it) for Mycroft's idea. However, he could have acted upon it ages ago, but he supposes he was a bit worried and scared of the outcome when he thought of the idea himself a while back.

Still. If John wishes to see him again, then he'll take what he can get, even if it's incognito.

He'll do anything to see John. Even if it's just those small touches, or preventing himself from getting hurt, and _oh yes_, Sherlock sees it. John's eyes hint at desire for company after what's happened. Perhaps someone that isn't an old friend of his. But John wouldn't take _any_ stranger to his house and invite them in for coffee, rain or no rain; John's kind, but not _that _kind.

_It's because I resemble so little of myself when I'm 'Benedict,' and yet still seem so much like myself. _He presses his lips together.

Sherlock can at least be a 'new' friend of his, to make up for the loss.

In a way, they need each other, as they did before. They _still_ do.

Like John still owns those armchairs. John needs those chairs because they hold so many memories of him and his old flatmate. He doesn't throw either one away because it's the right thing to do. There isn't anything wrong in regards to keeping those.

_Hurt and wounded by my 'death,' he takes the armchairs from our flat with him. So sentimental of the man._.. Sherlock runs a heavy hand down his face. _To think he'd actually do that. Oh, John... _He breathes heavily. _He must feel so out of place with those chairs when he's in the room with someone else. _The detective feels his chest tighten.

"To actually think you'd get rid of everything..." _I thought wrong. _He replays the scene in his mind over and over again, like a video. This information… he'll never delete it.

John wanted to preserve his memory, so he wouldn't forget about his former flatmate. Sherlock could only imagine how hard John had tried to keep their flat. He remembers when Mycroft informed him of John's move out of Baker Street.

"I did offer to help him, but he plainly refused to take it." Mycroft had said, one rainy evening.

"He doesn't need your money, Mycroft!" Sherlock remembers waving a hand at his brother, with such bitterness, and with a tint of disgust. "He's a solider. He'll do fine on his own."

"On his own?" Mycroft had said with a playful tune in his voice, as if he caught onto something ironically hilarious. "Dear brother, he isn't at _all _fine on his own. He's missing a detective. An old friend, in fact."

'I know that! I'm not _blind_,' Sherlock had wanted to say, but he had kept silent, staring out of the window, as if the people outside could amuse him more than his brother. But everyone looked so washed out, blending into the background, out of colour and utterly _dull,_ so Sherlock had turned away to play his violin.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, as if John is in the room with him. Sherlock feels his mind less cramped up inside, like he can think clearly for the first time in years. He imagines him and John back in Baker Street. Back home. _Their _home.

A small breeze creeps up into the room, and his imaginary doctor places a cup of tea or coffee on the table. Sherlock feels like he can breathe properly. Like John is the freshest air in all of London.

As soon as he opens his eyes, everything in the room begins to drain it's own colour. John isn't there. And they're not in Baker Street. John had to give it up because of him. Because of Moriarty. Because of the assassins. Because of Sherlock.

_Because of me! _He glares back to the phone.

His eyes trace over the words again. It's as if the letters are screaming at him to reply. To give John relief that he isn't alone.

_But you never were, John._

The detective tilts his head to the side prior to acknowledging the room before him. Of course he'll take another chance to get out of here. He needs more release and freedom away from Mycroft, and if it means being 'Benedict' to serve this purpose, why not take it?

After all, it _is_ an experiment.

And to what feels like an hour to Sherlock, he finally replies to John's message.


	4. Chapter 4

John hadn't expected an immediate response. Why would he? Plenty of people don't check their phones for hours on end, only at intervals, or they can't get to them straight away because they're driving or in a meeting, or their phone is on 'silent mode' for any number of similar reasons (the cinema being one of them). So he doesn't expect an immediate response, honest.

He convinces himself that he doesn't, anyway.

Instead, he tries to preoccupy himself with other, more mundane things, like searching for the last thing in his current novel that he recalls reading. He needs to practise a more regular bedtime; he's beginning to feel a bit like… He exhales through his nose. "No, he chose not to sleep because he wanted to keep thinking, keep going, only sleeping when his body absolutely had to in order to keep running. Sometimes his brain would trigger micronaps because he was so keen to stay awake for a case. That's not my problem." He rubs his forehead. "God, but I'm talking to myself. All I need now is a skull."

Bad dreams all the time. So many of them. Of Sherlock. Of Moriarty. Of bombs strapped to his chest beneath a thick green coat; of Sherlock stepping off of St. Bart's, the pool of crimson bleeding into the stones of the sidewalk, of it soaking and matting down Sherlock's dark tresses, of those staring, unseeing eyes, palely blue in the light of the dimming, dismally grey and clouded sky.

Nightmares, all of them.

Some involve Moriarty pressing knives or other equally startling weapons to John's throat, or Sherlock's throat, or to both their throats where they are suspended on walls or pinned to tables, sharpened pendulum swinging (John needs to never again read Edgar Allan Poe), or something else just as sinister.

Some involve Sherlock in solider gear, fighting alongside John as John runs to his fellow Englishmen in aid during battle. Bombs going off of the landmine or haphazardly thrown sort, vehicles flipping over, men yelling, machine guns blazing because they were doing fine, nothing wrong, until _wham, _guerrilla warfare of the most sordid brand.

And some of his insomnia-inducing dreams are simply puzzling scenarios in which John is Sherlock and Sherlock is John, and they are joint and separate, and they are friends; no, foes; no, _lovers; _no, no, _no_; they are just people, _souls,_ beings and _entities,_ and one and different and changing, shifting, blending, _peeling,_ shedding their layers until they are _equals_ in _every possible way._ And then John wakes up in a cold sweat because it felt too intimate and too vague, and yet perfectly reasonable in all its confusion.

So John takes sleeping pills, now, hoping to fall into a deep enough sleep to forgo his precious REM cycle of the dreaming state and simply dream of black pits and grey swirls, remembering nothing, understanding nothing, _feeling_ nothing.

John sighs – he does almost nothing but that these days – and checks his phone again, even though he knows he didn't hear his text alert go off. Still no response, and it's been twenty minutes. He looks away.

He's tired; _always _tired. He presses his fingers to his eyes and feels the dry, heavy, thick feeling of his eyelids and eyeballs and wills it away, eyes watering temporarily, and with a sting. He can't entirely distinguish if the fatigue is solely from lack of sleep or if part of it is his depression as well.

John, even as a doctor, can't seem to cure himself, heal himself. So he does all that he can instead. He keeps the armchairs. He moves into his own, incredibly small flat. He gets a busy job.

He makes a friend who reminds me so much of Sherlock, and yet very clearly _isn't _him.

"Jesus, I'm sodding pitiful," John bemoans, and he blinks away the self-pitying tears to match his words and chooses instead to pick up his book again.

He's too eager for a reply from Ben to focus on reading, however. He glances over at his phone again, imagining the sound of his text alert.

And that's naturally when it goes off. Sometimes willing things into being works.

John smiles when he sees that it is, in fact, from his new friend, Mr. Cumberbatch.

Haha, yes, I'm free. And yes, I would like to have lunch with you and get to know you more. Just say when and where, and I will meet you there. (Hey! I rhymed!) :D –Ben

John laughs aloud; just a huff, really, but a laugh nonetheless. The rhyme is enough for a smile, but it's the smiley face that gets him: he pictures Benedict's smile-ready face in its place, and John can't help but allow his spirits to lift just a fraction of the way skyward.

He types out a location and an exact time – his allotted lunch hour – and feels the urge picking at him to thank Benedict for humouring him, but he resists, somehow.

And then John feels suddenly a whole lot better, like a weight's been lifted, like he's found solace enough even to take a nap, right here, right now, in his favourite armchair, and not have to worry about needing the pills to avoid nightmarish dreams.

And so he does. John hits 'send' and succumbs to the shores of sleep for a while as they wash over him.

XXX

In all his eagerness, when it comes down to it, John is shy.

Well, not _shy _per se, but definitely reserved. He has to be; he feels the need as of late to protect himself against others. As if everyone he might open himself up to will only leave him in one way or another in the end. He doesn't feel very supported; it's as if no one dares get close enough to him to help him, to give him something to lean on. And he does so need something to lean on; John's running out of energy to use to carry his own weight; he's too heavy with grief, even now, a few years after his main support beam was ripped out form under him, and his roof began to cave in.

Oh, all metaphors again. Perhaps John shouldn't read as much as he has been lately. But what else is there to do? Everything on the telly feels shallow and stupid, and John doesn't dare take any cases (even when Greg asked him to a handful of times; but he can't do it. He isn't Sherlock, he's just an ex-army doctor). The only thing left to do in his spare time is write or read, and John has nothing more to write, so that leaves only one option.

But he's beginning to think he might as well be writing anyway, just nonsense that he won't post, if only to get these ridiculous, sporadic metaphors out of his head.

John fidgets in his seat. He came too early, of course, and Ben will most likely be arrive at the exact meeting time – he's an actor, and actors can't afford to be late to auditions and things, so John believes he will most likely turn out to be a man of integrity, at least when it comes to being on-time – which is still fifteen minutes from now. John sighs a little, just a puff of air, and looks at the lunch menu. It's a little bistro, so there aren't many things on the menu, but John does love their sandwiches, and right now, he's eyeing one of their more popular paninis.

"Is my clock wrong? You're already here. Am I late?"

A voice interrupts John's surfing of the menu, and his head snaps upward to see Benedict's smiling face. He takes the seat across from John, sets down a brief case, and folds his hands together on the tabletop.

"So, how have you been today?" Ben asks lightly, and he plucks his menu from between the salt and pepper shakers between them, glancing it over. "Mm, I'm not very hungry. I might just get something to drink. Been running around all morning, you see."

"Oh, I see. Um, yeah. I've been fine; just… you know, fine," John murmurs, shrugging his shoulders and setting down his menu. He offers his companion a small smile. "What's in the briefcase, if you don't mind my asking?"

Something flickers on Ben's face, but then he smiles. "Papers, of course. Just, ah, scripts. For a few parts I'm going to try out for. I was just able to collect them this morning, and I have yet to look over them. But hopefully they will bring good news. – Once I audition, I mean."

"Oh, that's fantastic! Do tell me if you get any leads," John says. He blinks. "Lead roles, I meant. I meant leading roles, not…" He drifts off just as the waitress comes by, asking for their orders. John gives his, and then Ben makes his.

Once the woman is gone, John clicks his tongue. He frowns for a moment, mainly at himself; why had he said 'leads'? 'Leads' implies… criminal cases. Clues. Something to lead into the next course of action. It's… it's something he would say to Sherlock. And John can only shake himself and keep in mind that while Benedict reminds him a bit of Sherlock in appearance, they are nothing alike, and Ben is _not _a replacement, cannot fill the hole Sherlock left behind, but he _is, _potentially, a good friend, and that's what John needs right now: someone to talk to besides himself and his books.

So John makes a tight smile and asks Ben about some of the things that interest him. As it turns out, Benedict doesn't care much for television, either, and enjoys reading non-fiction, particularly of the psychological and sociological genres because he finds human behaviour fascinating, which is why he wanted to play it up a bit and become an actor.

In turn, Ben asks about John, and John shrugs, blushing slightly because he doesn't always fancy talking about himself. He relays, however, as their drinks, and soon after, John's food arrives, that he's always been interested in healing. He's always wanted to go to other people's aids, and he's always played doctor as a child; it was his favourite pastime. And then, of course, he got interested in biology in school and started picking up medical books until he decided to go to university to practise becoming a doctor. But he didn't have the money, and so desperately wanted to go; and that's when he signed up for the British army. They would pay for his schooling and train him as both soldier and doctor, and in the end, John was successful with it.

Ben nods. "I attended every theatre class and got into every play I could during my schooling. The theatre program at my university was vast and worked well for me. I didn't think I would make it very big, but I love doing it. Some people think that acting is manipulation, and in a way, I suppose it is, but that's what makes it interesting, isn't it? And I'll admit I like the feel of being able to sway people just by the way I deliver a line or move my body."

"Just don't try any of those tricks on me!" John teases, laughing, but there is the quickest flash of something like guilt in Ben's eyes when John says this, but soon he's shaking his head and laughing, 'Don't worry, I won't,' so John dismisses it immediately.

They talk for another hour after John's food is finished. Then, Benedict stands and says, "Ah, it's been nice chatting with you, John, and I hope we can meet up again soon. In the meantime, I'm off." And he offers his hand, ever so casually, to shake goodbye.

John takes it and it feels so much like Sherlock's hand had when they were running, cuffed together, that John has to swallow down the heated flare that comes before the urge to cry. He smiles tightly. "Goodbye, then, Ben. See you soon." And he nods, and Ben hesitates a second before releasing John's hand, and he gives a returning smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

After his new friend leaves, John pays the bill and makes his own exit. But he can't help but feel like he's on a very slippery slope, walking a fine line between staying on the edge and sliding all the way down to the gorge below.

But he likes Ben, and at this point, John supposes, anyone he lets into his life will remind him of Sherlock is some small way or another – that comes naturally with grief – so he tries not to let it bother him so much.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock isolates himself in the flat for a day, without any contact from John or Mycroft. For John has no idea of the true nature of what's inside the briefcase; it isn't scripts and plays, but instead Mycroft's current leads on the henchmen. Sherlock has asked his brother himself if he could go to collect the papers on his way to see John. And for the first time since this started, Mycroft let him.

"You're having too much fun. Be careful, brother..." Mycroft had raised a brow after the request's answer before Sherlock treads away.

And indeed, Sherlock _is _having a bit of fun doing this – no, wait, a _lot_ of fun. The disguise, 'Benedict Cumberbatch;' meeting John time and time again; it's all quite exhilarating for him, even though it's been about two days, and normally this would mark when he would get bored of a disguise or seeing someone and drop it. And that's just it: he knows he's close to doing something beyond their friendship. Because in the last few years, it's something that will be acceptable for 'Benedict's case, rather than it would be for Sherlock himself.

_Going out with John? You're out of your mind, Sherlock. _He reminds himself as he plasters more papers of Moriaty's henchmen all over the living room wall.

Then he reminds himself of what he truly feels for the doctor.

_I don't know... I know that I need him. _Miss_ him. What else could there be?_

He scoffs at himself as he pins a red string to the wall, connecting the line to another source. His chest tightens for a moment, thinking about John, and then it stops when Sherlock's phone starts to vibrate with another message.

Sherlock feels his body tense at the sound dying down and he feels at peace when it finally stops. He reminds himself that it would be best to ignore it for the moment; he should not look at his phone until he figures out the final connection between the assassins and Moriarty. It isn't even a hard task for Sherlock, really, but his well-being to interact with the outside world begs to differ.

He wants to test himself, to see how long he can keep it going until he gives up and runs to his phone. _Patience..._

His fingers twitch at the temptation of his phone and he spins back round, staring at his master piece – all papers, articles, documents, photographs – almost finished. There are many strings attached from one end, going to another, linking the things he knows thus far, from all of his deductions and what Mycroft has given him. However, it's yet to be finished, because if it were, then all of Moriarty's henchmen and allies would have been taken down already.

It's a dreadfully _uncompleted_ piece.

Almost like a puzzle, Sherlock feels the same thing: like the piece in the middle has been plucked out and tossed in the bin, as if it's been done on purpose just to spite and frustrate him. And in some way, Sherlock has done the exact same thing to John, throwing himself out of the picture – a missing piece in the puzzle of an unfinished painting – _incomplete_ – like how John is without Sherlock; how the detective had to stage a performance, so he could protect the people he cares about so much in his life.

Sherlock flinches. The feeling of guilt sinks in and his mouth suddenly feels dry from unspoken words that weigh heavy in his throat. He didn't think he would feel this; he never knew he could. It's foreign and distasteful. He swallows hard.

And this is why, from his previous meeting with the doctor, Sherlock feels more determined to carry out the goal to rid the world of Moriarty's henchmen.

The look of anticipation and curiosity on John's face enlightened Sherlock. And it's an interesting feature that Sherlock hasn't witness in years; the look of interest and sense of danger, flickering through his eyes as he absently licked his lips in temptation for a new case. But it was quickly washed out in a mere amount of seconds, when John realised his own mistake of the word, that slip up of 'lead' versus 'leading role,' and it was all brushed off when the waitress came over.

John's expression is a small boost to motivate Sherlock even more, which brings him back to the reason why the detective decided to confine himself for a day in the flat. He wants to please John by linking up the assassins, completing his and Mycroft's mission of fully protecting Sherlock's few friends. So he chooses a day or two to be alone with his own deductions, just so when he sees John next time, he can feel a bit more proud of himself, a bit closer to reuniting them genuinely.

Sherlock's lips quirks into a smile while thinking about the doctor. _John managed to sleep fine last night. No signs of exhaustion. _He hums to himself, tracing a finger across a dusty string as his eyes roam around the room. _Very good, John. Very good. At least I'm doing something for you... _

And the thought of John finally getting some decent sleep pleases him. _Then what about the other nights? _The unforgivable emotion of transgression crawls back into place, weighing on Sherlock's heart, as if to break it.

He draws his attention to his phone again, as it vibrates another message. He acknowledges the fact that mobile phones cannot talk, unless someone is on the other line in an actual conversation, but when his phone goes off on another beat, it sounds urgent.

_Not Mycroft. It's 2am. Who else would text me? _

Before he could answer himself, he's already unlocking the screen to peek at what it is.

There are several messages from Mycroft and only three from John. Sherlock instantly ignores his brother and focuses on John's messages.

_Hello! I just wondered how you're getting along with the scripts and your auditions. How's your day been? - _JW

_I saw a cat today, with a can stuck around it's head. I took him or her to the vet. Turns out the cat is a girl. She's seems fine, after I took her to the animal shelter. She was a small ginger cat, with small black and white spots; reminded me of you, haha. - _JW

Sherlock absently smirks and flickers his gaze to the newest one John has sent.

_I know it's pretty late, but would it be alright if you give me a call, whenever you get this? - _JW

So he was right to check his messages, then, now and he hears the urgency in John's tone. As he reads the text message again, it feels almost as if it isn't real; John, coming to a near-stranger for late-night advice or comfort of some sort? It's… alarming.

Without another moment's hesitation, he calls John. The ex-soldier picks up on the third ring.

"John? What's wrong?" He asks, making himself sound as if he's just woken up. He yawns for an extra affect and he hears John murmur something that he doesn't catch. "John, are you okay?"

He tries again and it sounds like he's in a trance or distracted by something. The doctor finally responses. "...Sorry about that. I..." John's voice trails off, sounding a bit guilty that it's early in the morning.

"Are you alright? You're not wounded or something, are you?" he asks, and his hand tightens on the device, and he's sure that it'll snap in two if he isn't reassured that his friend is out of harm's way.

_Oh God_, _what if the assassins got to John already?_ A moment of panic flashes through him, icy and nauseating, and so very unlike him. He wills it away the best he can and swallows again.

"John?" Sherlock is close to pleading. He's prepared to make it out of the door.

"Ben," John says with a small chuckle. This signals Sherlock that he's not wounded, so the detective relaxes. "I'm sorry, mate, I..." And he moves, as if he's sitting up on his bed. "I'm pathetic and so silly for texting you so late! I'm sorry..."

"Oh no, John... It's perfectly fine." He swallows hard, shaking his head. "What's up, lad?" He regains himself and hopes he hasn't given too much away.

John exhales through his nose, before scratching the back of his neck, by the sound of it. "I..." He loses his voice again but he keeps it up. Hesitation and contempt course through his tone as he speaks. "I had a dreadful nightmare again. Woke up in a cold sweat and all." He tries to humour himself by chuckling, but Sherlock can almost hear how hallow John's laughter is. "I don't know why, but... I just needed to talk to someone. To get my mind off it."

"It's no problem at all, John. I don't mind talking to you, if it helps."

"Th-thanks, mate..."

Sherlock doesn't want to question or remark on John's nightmares. Not yet, anyway, so he moves onto a new topic. "I've heard that you've rescued a cat." Amusement and wonder in his voice.

"Ah, yes. She's an adorable cat." The coldness is slipping out, now, by degrees, warming the doctor considerably closer to his usual self. "Found her on my way back home. She kept meowing in the alleyway. I'm surprised no one found her until I did. Turns out she's doesn't have an owner."

Sherlock can imagine John smiling as he explains what the vet had said. John informs his friend on how it was a bit painful, giving the cat away to the animal shelter.

"You should take her in," Sherlock suggests, and he hears John chuckle warmly. "No, really, you should."

"I don't know if I'll be good with pets, anyway."

"Worth a try, eh?"

"Of course!" John agrees.

"Or perhaps a dog. You seem like a dog person to me," Sherlock grins. Perhaps something sturdy to match John in loyalty and strength of heart. A bull pup, maybe. Sherlock idly wonders what John would name it; most likely something slightly different than the cliché norms for dogs' names, because John is, after all, not nearly as ordinary as everyone else.

Sherlock sometimes wonders if him and John should have gotten a pet when they were living together. Perhaps it would have gave better company than Sherlock did whenever he left John on his own. However, if they had gotten a dog, he or she would not be helpful if they recognized Sherlock in one quick glance, so perhaps it was for the best that they hadn't.

_Thank goodness, we didn't get one! _Sherlock nods to himself. _Don't know how Mrs. Hudson would have taken it, anyhow. She may not have even permitted it in our flat._

"Sorry that I messaged you, though..." John's own guilt-ridden thoughts return. He sounds tired and a bit angry with himself. "I didn't wake you up, did I?" He silences himself for a moment, thinking about what he said, and how 'Benedict' had sounded upon answering the phone. "No, wait... I'm sorry that I woke you up."

"Like what I said, John, it's no problem at all." Sherlock loosens his grip on his mobile. "I couldn't really sleep properly. I got too excited about the scripts I've been reading!"

"Oh?" John quires. "When is your first audition?"

"The end of this week. Though I don't think I will get the lead..."

"Don't be silly, lad! You'll get it! If you want to go over a few lines with me, I don't mind helping you out."

"Really? You would do that for me, John?" Sherlock can feel himself smiling at the remark.

"Of course!" And the doctor sounds more delighted than ever.

Sherlock drums his fingers on his chin. "Well, I do have this monologue to go over. Would it be alright if I run it by you tomorrow, if you're not too busy?"

"I'd love to, Ben!"

"Excellent. Thank you, John."

"Is after work fine with you? We can meet at my flat, if you want; around 6-ish, I think."

"Sure thing."

And John huffs in frustration as if he just noticed the time. "It's getting pretty late now. I'll see you later on today, okay? Sorry to keep you up."

"You have no need to be sorry, John. Sleep well."

John hums and Sherlock can imagine him smiling now. "Yes..." Sherlock is about to hang up, until John calls out for him again. "Um, Ben..." And he almost sounds like a small child, calling out for his long lost friend, and it tugs at the detective's heart.

"Yes, John?" He quirks a brow, trying not to have his voice affect how he feels now.

"Thanks for calling me." John sounds so small and a bit conflicted on the inside, but so meaningful at the same time, and it makes Sherlock want to confess for his sins and horrifying lies.

Sherlock purses his lips together as he collects himself. "You're welcome. You can text or call me anytime. I am _always _here for you, John."

It's a kept promise from Sherlock, and he knows he probably sounds way too forward to John, but he knows his words will help the doctor. Although he doesn't want John to think that he pities him for the loss of his best friend.

Even though John has no idea that he's still alive, Sherlock wants to make it clear to him. 'Dead' or alive, in some aspects, Sherlock is always here for John. He's here to piece his life back together for him, or to simply help his dear old friend get back on his feet after a nightmare.

Sherlock can sense John tense at such words, full of so much promise from practically a stranger. Maybe a tear is falling down his cheek, Sherlock thinks, because he hears a distinct rustling sound at the end of the phone, as if John is wiping his face with his sleeve.

"Th-thank you, Benedict." John breathes heavily, sounding a bit shaken up. "I..." He stops himself, as if he's worried about what he'll say next will possibly scare Sherlock; or, rather, scare _Ben _off. "Goodnight, lad. Sleep well. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Have a good rest."

And John hangs up, refusing for the conversation to drag on with anymore apologies or any further emotional words or sentences.

Sherlock stares at his phone as he lies down on the couch. He fiddles with it a bit before wrapping himself in his robe. He falls straight to sleep, hoping that he doesn't have to wake John up with any nightmares of his own.

XXX

When Sherlock arrives at John's flat, there seems to be more of a warm and welcoming feel to the doctor's apartment than before. He can't put his finger on why this is so. Maybe it's because of John's cheerful laugh and opening handshake (two things Sherlock never got to experience from John before, not in this manner anyhow). Or perhaps it's because John is less shy and hesitant when Sherlock appears at his front door.

But whatever the reason, Sherlock thinks how he can get used to this, if and when they ever return to Baker Street. He ignores the pang in his chest and happily accepts the tea that John offers to make for him.

The two sit down, talking about their work while they have tea. And Sherlock notes how John seems to have brushed off their startling conversation last night and doesn't dare to raise the question about John's reasoning for messaging him. However, Sherlock can deduce the matter, but he chooses not to.

John manages to get Sherlock to recite his monologue for him, half an hour later. Sherlock chose something Shakespearian (_Macbeth_), a classic and predictable audition for any rising theatre actor, and he only hopes John doesn't notice that there is currently only one session of The Scottish Tragedy being held currently in London, and it isn't for a very major theatre troupe at all.

He tries to be bashful in front of John, to seem more like 'Benedict,' but the doctor gives him far too much confidence. Sherlock stands in the middle of the living room as he speaks. He pauses on the right words, his words enveloping the room, changing the very atmosphere around him and John. He tries not to fall out of character (double roles; Benedict, _Macbeth_; acting as an actor as a character, but mainly portraying the actor), but it is hard for Sherlock not to as he flickers his gaze from the paper (already memorised in a single night, but can't have it appear that way) to John.

John stares intently at the detective, letting Sherlock's character take him into a different world. He looks captivated by Sherlock's every word, and Sherlock recognises an expression from John – once again, something that he hasn't seen in years. It's the same look John would give Sherlock when he was at a crime scene or at the morgue, rattling off deductions over a piece of evidence or a cadaver.

And at the end of it, John is left with his jaw hanging low, looking stunned by the man before him.

"...That was _amazing,_ Ben!" He says, clapping for his friend. "You're a brilliant actor! Splendid job, mate!"

Sherlock smirks, as he places the piece of paper back into his briefcase; emptied, now, save for this script. "I must say, I was a tad nervous."

"You shouldn't be, Ben. You're amazing!" He glances at him when Sherlock takes his seat on the couch. Sherlock's smile widens. Just the mere act of John saying he's amazing makes him feel overjoyed in some way. "I didn't even know you were nervous. When you were in character, I was hanging on the edge of my seat! I got chills," he laughs.

"I could tell by the way you observed me," Sherlock nods. John's smile drops completely, as if he's been reminded of an old flatmate. "Thank you, John." Sherlock ignores it and attempts to continue their discussion, sipping a bit of his now cold tea. "I think I should start to leave. I fear I've stayed for too long."

"Oh, no, you don't have to." John stammers. "I'll make us dinner," he offers as he leaves the living room and paces into the next room.

Sherlock stands. "You really don't have to, John! I don't want you to waste your food on me." He calls, as he takes a few steps towards the kitchen.

"It's the least I can do after I woke you up last night." John remarks for the first time since Sherlock arrived. He stands by the kitchen table, hesitating in his task to speak. Sherlock watches him carefully.

Sherlock blinks. _Ah, so he does remember. _He bites his lip, before smiling at the doctor. "John..."

"It's okay, Ben. I don't mind. I haven't cooked for anyone in a long while." He proceeds to the fridge, peering at the contents he already has. "Pasta?"

"Let me help you cook, please." Sherlock trails behind John, as he grabs the pasta and tomato sauce from the pantry.

"If you insist." John chuckles, as he starts to boil the kettle, before putting it in a pot. "This is quite strange." His smile seems to brighten the room and Sherlock can't help but stare at him.

"How so?" He nudges John in the side in a playful way, after rolling up his sleeves.

His friend plays with the hob, setting the temperature. "Me and my old flatmate never cooked together before." John fixes his gaze on the food, but Sherlock knows he's thinking beyond that. He puts the pasta in the pot, watching the water bubble. John doesn't catch Sherlock frown at the comment, even when he views up at his friend. He seems to catch himself, realising what he said, and murmurs, "Sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"Sometimes it helps to talk about people you've lost," Sherlock accidentally murmurs in reply, but John hears him.

The doctor gives Sherlock a sad smile. "Yeah..." He turns his attention back on the pot and takes a wooden spoon out.

"Let me, John." Sherlock insists, and John hands him the spoon as he starts to the stir the pasta.

The latter peers into the fridge again, taking out the butter. He hums to himself, possibly thinking on what to have with the pasta. "Is tuna okay?"

"Oh, yes, that will do." Sherlock dips his chin with a quick nod. "How long should I keep stirring?"

"Tell me you haven't made pasta before?"

"I'm not good at cooking." Sherlock answers. "I can make myself food but when it comes to making food for others, it goes horribly wrong." He looks at John and gives him a small shrug. "So, I guess, I might accidentally poison this meal."

Sherlock isn't sure if it was his saying or the seemingly genuinely worried expression he gave to the other, but it sets John over the edge with hilarity. John throws a fist in his mouth, trying to muffle his tittering and Sherlock raises his brows at the laughing man. The supposed actor watches John lose control of his whole body as he goes into a laughing fit; his body swaying back and fourth. It's as if it's the one of the most hilarious things he's heard in ages.

Sherlock has seen John laugh before when they're out on crime scenes, but this is something new and different – something so hidden from John, his reserved nature dropping away like a snake's old skin. And Sherlock blames himself for not seeing this side previously – this cheerful and uplifting side of John, laughing in almost a relieved way, most likely due to the fact that he hasn't laughed sincerely in years, not since what Sherlock has done. It almost wants to make him cry for some strange reason, and he has to look away, finally, to keep himself together.

"You're doing just fine, Ben!" John calms himself down as he wipes a tear from his eye. He stares at Sherlock with concern in his eyes, taking notice of his suddenly quiet mood. "Ben?"

_Get a hold of yourself! _Sherlock blinks and glances back at John. He forces an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I spaced out." He turns back to the food and realises his mistake for saying this, because John approaches him.

"I didn't mean to insult your cooking, Ben..."

Sherlock faces the other, John's hand is on his shoulder. He did not notice John's touch until he sees it now, and he absently licks his lips. "I wasn't insulted by your merriment." He gives him a tight smile and continues to stir the pasta. "I just remembered something silly, that's all."

"Please tell me that you didn't kill anyone with your cooking?" John quirks his lips into a smile and Sherlock reacts with a laugh of his own. They soon find themselves snickering.

"You'll be glad to hear that I did not." He pokes John with his elbow. "I once had my mother yell in disgust about my cooking skills before. It was not a sight to see." John folds his arms, listening. "The food was more or less overcooked, but at least I managed to put a smile on my father's face." Sherlock smiles to himself at the memory, even though he omitted a few minor bits. So it's relatively true; or, well, _half_-true.

In truth, however, it was on one sunny Mother's Day when Mycroft and Sherlock were very young. They decided to test the waters on cooking lunch, as a treat for their dear Mummy. However, Mycroft was being too bossy about the oven and how they seasoned their Mummy's steak, and Sherlock was infuriated at his brother's behaviour and threatened to throw the whole meal out of the window.

They managed to get through the whole hour and a half, after bickering and poking each other with forks and spoons, which means they gave their Mummy a very overcooked lunch. And their cold father, whom Sherlock remembers only slightly (because he doesn't like to remember his father that much, so most of his memory about him has been deleted), Mr Holmes, patted his sons' backs and smiled after Mummy pulled a face at the food. Sherlock felt so much pride and admiration from his father that day. It was so human and just as alien to see from their dad as it would be from either of the Holmes brothers.

It reminds Sherlock how he is like, in fact, occasionally like everyone else. He's _hardly _human, apparently, because he does not care about what is spoken about him by others, but he cares enough if the people are close enough to him that their opinions matter.

John bumps his shoulder against Sherlock's arm, bringing him back to reality, as if he knew Sherlock was looking upon the very memory.

"You have me to prevent poisoning, so I'm sure this dinner will turn out fine," he reassures the detective and picks a fork at a string of pasta and tastes it. "It's soft, but still with some chew to it. Perfect. I believe the Italians call it _al dente?_" He clicks his tongue at his lack of knowledge and shrugs, smiling. "Let's get the strainer out." He claps his hands together, trailing to one of the cupboards.

Sherlock's eyes follow John, feeling speechless at the man. There is so much to learn about him, it seems, a lifetime's worth of Little Things About John Watson, and Sherlock wants to witness it all. Cooking dinner with John for the first time is something he wants to experience again, for example.

Sherlock starts to feel excitement rushing in his veins and he smirks to himself at this somewhat life-changing experience. Something to add to his experiment data, he notes.

_Let's see how this goes, then, shall we?_


	6. Chapter 6

John can't seem to stop himself. It's not normal, he doesn't think, to be glancing up at his new friend as often as he is while they eat dinner across from one another around John's tiny table.

John forces himself to drop his gaze (again) and hopes that he isn't caught with his sneaking glances. They're chatting idly while they eat, but for the most part, Benedict is reading over his audition's monologue aiming to rehearse it again for John, and while he reads, John can't seem to stop himself from looking up.

There are moments when John has to do a double-take and remind himself that Ben isn't Sherlock. But it distracts him; because Ben will say something, or act a certain way, and it will trigger memories of Sherlock or feelings John had for Sherlock's similar sayings and doings, and the next thing John knows, grief strikes his heart and his demeanour shifts. Ben's noticed once or twice, John thinks, and he _knows _he was caught the second Ben mentioned how, sometimes, it's best to talk about those one has loved and lost.

But John doesn't usually want to talk about it. He hardly could with Ella, and she was his _therapist, _for Christ's sake. He thinks he might be able to with Benedict, however. He thinks, if he gets it out now, it might either solidify or soil their friendship, but it's a necessary risk.

John clears his throat.

Benedict looks up, ceasing his memorising, as expected. John inhales slowly. "Um. Listen, I just… I want to put this out there so it doesn't get awkward later, since it already has gotten awkward a few times, and…"

Ben raises his left brow, and it catches in John's throat because _Sherlock used to do the same thing. _Bollocks, he really does need to get it out, now, doesn't he? Because of little things like this.

"I know you're aware of how… how badly my flatmate's death affected me. And how, sometimes, you remind me of him. But that's just it, I think: you remind me of him so much sometimes that it's… it's a bit jarring. I-I don't want you to think that I'm only befriending you because of him, though, because that isn't the case at all. I like you just fine as you are, and we get on great, I think. And I know you don't just pity me because of my woes, either, which is… well, nice, I suppose."

Benedict is studying John carefully, his expression like that of a sponge, absorbing every word through his pores and processing it through teeny sphincters inside. John almost smiles, but licks his lips to stop it.

He carries on, "But I just want you to know that if I ever make a face, or… or say something odd, just try not to let it bring you down, yeah? You've been reading this whole time, and I can't help but feel like that's my fault, even though I know you need to in order to nail your audition."

Ben blinks and says immediately, "I-I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression! I'm honestly still nervous about auditioning, that's all. I can do it so easily in front of you, but before the group of people I know I have to perform for… I don't think it will be that easy, you know? With you, it's fine, somehow, and I get it out just right, but I don't know if it will go over well with them. I will have to be spot-on." He smiles a bit. "Perhaps thinking of you and how I acted around you for it will help? – Anyway, that's honestly all that's bothering me."

"Oh. Well, that's good," John replies with a low, uneasy chuckle. He rubs his neck and glances away for a moment before reclaiming his fork and stabbing one of his remaining bites of pasta. "But, I just… what you said earlier, when we were making dinner; it stuck with me. I don't…" He inhales and exhales measurably slower than average. "I hate talking about him, actually. I hate it. Every person I know is so worried about me. 'How are you holding up, John?' 'Do you want to talk about it to me, John?' 'It's not healthy, John, staying cooped up as you are, between work and home. You need to get out more.' 'Have you anyone to take to the pub once and a while, John? Want me to go with you?' 'John, have you thought about dating anyone to take your mind off it?' …And it keeps going. It's annoying as fuck. They all think that Sherlock has _broken _me, and that they think I should be _fixed _by now."

Benedict scowls, and John doesn't expect half as heated a response as the one he receives, but it doesn't bother him in the slightest, only surprises him a bit, and touches his heart. Ben pounds a fist onto the table, earning a hard _thwump _of protest from the wood. "That's stupid. _They're_ stupid. Don't listen to them, John, you're perfectly strong and capable and _fine_. They don't know you well enough. They don't understand." And he seems to catch himself and force calmness. "Ah, I mean. Just… don't let it get to you. You're allowed to do things at your own pace. Talk about him when you want to, or not at all."

"Well, that's just the thing," John answers with a rub over his face and the same hand gesturing outward, "I kind of finally want to talk about him; to you, at least. I dunno. I trust you. I know it's weird, but it could be because of those moments when you sound or give off something that's like him. I hope that doesn't… doesn't freak you out. I don't mean to project my grief on you, but it happens and I can't seem to stop it. It'll go away eventually, I think, but until then…"

"You want to talk to me about it. And about him," Benedict finishes thoughtfully, his eyes leaving John long enough for his hands to come together on the table, pushing audition packet and half-eaten plate aside. His thumbs rub one another where he peers down at them, and John waits for Ben to raise his head up again. When he does, he's saying swiftly, "It doesn't affect me, no. I understand completely. Sometimes… sometimes you remind me of someone I knew once, too, and I think that was why I'm drawn to you. It happens, doesn't it? People are lured to one another through grief at times, odd times. It… it's reasonable."

"Yeah, I sure think so," John responds thickly. He swallows. "Um. So, do you mind if, for a bit, I tell you something private?"

"No, of course not," Ben looks surprised John is even asking. "You trust me enough to. That's good, I believe. Your ignorant friends might call it progress, what we have. Tell me, please."

John lets out a ragged, anxious breath. "Heh. This is going to sound mad, but: I didn't really _notice, _at all, how I actually felt about him. Not until he was gone. Then all the clues sort of lined up and I felt like a right idiot for not letting myself see it sooner. But I was in denial, I think, even to my own physical reactions, so I didn't let myself ponder it much, even to form the idea. But I th– no, I _know_, now, that I loved him. Was in love with him. _God_," he adds, putting his forehead in his hand and closing his eyes. "It doesn't even make sense. I don't fancy men, not at all. But there was something about him. It… it entranced me, captivated me, held me fast. I never met anyone else like him, never will again, even if you come close sometimes," and he laughs like it's a joke. Maybe it is, John thinks. A big, ugly joke. He shakes his head. "Sorry," he says finally, lifting his head and blowing air out his mouth. "You probably didn't need to hear that. Lord knows Sherlock wouldn't have stood for it, me being embarrassingly foolish like that." And he smiles oddly.

Ben simply gapes. When he gathers himself up again, he's shaking his head. His voice is quiet. "No, no… it's fine, John. It's… all fine."

John snorts. "I said that same thing to him on the second day since meeting him. I meant it about sexuality." Benedict clearly means the same, but he mostly means more along the lines of, 'Telling me this, giving me this secret; it's fine. All of your emotional baggage is fine. I can bear some of it. I can help you, if this is what you need. It's all fine.' – At least John thinks this is what Ben means. He could be reading too much into it, what with all his hopes. He hopes for a lot of things, one of which being that Benedict doesn't decide to drop John as a potential friend.

"Did you?" Ben says, and there: a slow, encouraging smile. Things are all right after all. John can breathe again. He hasn't made any vital mistakes. _Good._ "But that is… I can see why they're all worried. They must be able to tell. They must think it'll bring you closure or some nonsense to say it aloud. But as long as you know it… that's… that's good. Fine." He clears his throat, and John dismissively wonders why Benedict looks so suddenly lost in thought, so nervous. "Um. How do you think he felt about you?"

John laughs bitterly. "Oh, not the same at all. Sherlock was into interested in anyone, not even a particularly attractive woman who was almost as clever as he was, in some little ways. Even she didn't turn his head when she threw herself at him, and he didn't like her in the end, I don't think. He never looked at anyone the way he looked at her, and even then, it was a really mild interest, it seemed. But I was still jealous, in retrospect. Furiously jealous. I told myself, at the time, that it was only because she was dangerous and not to be trusted, and she was being inappropriate. But I know better, now. I was jealous that she could catch his eye for even a second, even a smidge, when I couldn't."

Ben looks contemplative, as if he isn't sure what he should say. Then, after a glance away from John, down at his meal, he murmurs, "You could be wrong."

"Could've been wrong, yeah," John corrects, "But I won't know now. Never will. He's gone, and so is she. Can't ask either of them what they had, and I definitely wouldn't ask him, even if he were alive, if he would have had it with me instead. Sherlock doesn't –" his breath hitches. "_Didn't _do relationships. The closest he's had to any sort of relationship was his friendship with me, I'm sure. Other people were fond of him, but he didn't chose to be close to them. I think that's just because none of them had to live with him like I did. I earned that right by default." And he smiles sadly.

Benedict looks genuinely hurt, now, and a bit too empathetic. "No, you… You don't know that for sure, John. Don't belittle him. I'm sure he… _felt_ more than you or anyone knew. No one is that heartless."

"Moriarty was that heartless. And Sherlock liked to think he was," John retorts sourly. He sighs again. "Sorry. It's a good thing we're friends, mate, or I would be making a right mess of a date, wouldn't I?" and he laughs without any heart in it, much like he had over the phone the night before.

He wonders, vaguely, what it would be like to date a man. It would be different than being with a woman, because, by now, he would have offended or put off the girl he was with, but Ben seems at ease, and it's fresh and pleasant, a welcome change. He almost wonders if dating Ben would be better than what they have now, as strange a friendship as it is.

John clears his throat and changes topic. "Are you going to finish that? If not, we can clean up and you can leave – I'd understand if you'd want to, considering how I've been acting – or we can put on a DVD. It's up to you."

"I'm finished eating," Ben says after a pause. His expression clears and he puts on a smile. "And as much of a downer as you're being, I really can't leave you like this. I'll gladly stay a while longer. But I must warn you: I'm an awful film critic. Comes with being an actor, I suppose. I pick out the flaws in writing and acting an awful lot."

John chuckles, and there is more meat to the sound than before. "No, that's fine. I could use some commentary like that to pick me up. Thank you," he adds, "For letting me get that out. And for being a good enough friend to stay. We've not known each other long, but it feels like we have. We're good friends already, aren't we?" and he's seeking approval, he knows he is, to be reassured that he isn't pathetic. It's so cliché that John could vomit.

But Benedict is kind about it. He stands abruptly. "No, of course we are! Don't be absurd, John. We get on famously, and I wouldn't trade your friendship for the world. You might feel like you're too forward, but you're not. I need y– a friend like you just as much right now, believe me. I have my own baggage that sometimes I fear I'm projecting on you."

John makes a bewildered expression. "God, no! I haven't even felt that at all."

Ben smiles and puts an arm around John, and the hug is a tad misplaced but not unwelcome, and John returns it graciously. "Well, neither have I, so you're safe," says Ben, pulling out of the hug.

The taller man picks up his plate and moves to the rubbish bin to dump its contents. John follows suit, and Ben washes – insisting, again, on not being an idle guest – and John dries and puts the dishes and pots away in the cabinet. They chat the entire time about nonsensical things to lighten the mood, the clinking of dishes and the sloshing of soapy water adding an airy cadence to the background of their voices.

It's after they've sat down on the sofa and put on a movie that Benedict breaks the easy flow with a light touch to John's hand. It would go unnoticed, John thinks, if Benedict's fingers weren't so warm. The heat of them spread up John's hand, distracting him from Ben's commentary and the film itself.

The doctor glances down at the space between them, John leaning his weight on his left hand pressed into the sofa cushion, and Ben's fingertips absent-mindedly brushing and stroking along the side of John's hand, along his pinkie finger, and briefly over his last two knuckles, a tap or two against his wrist. It's meant to be comforting after their intense discussion about Sherlock, John thinks in a rush. Because why would Ben deliberately flirt with him? It doesn't… make sense…

His thoughts drift off there.

John sinks against the sofa further, relaxing visibly. He lifts his last two fingers into Ben's touch. Ben freezes, his words plummeting like stones from a cliff, and he steals a sideways glance at John. However, John pretends to be keeping his eyes fixated on the screen, as if what's going on between their fingers, all minute touches and lingering strokes, is just casual, normal contact between two blokes.

It isn't, and they both know it.

"_John_," Ben whispers for a moment, small and affectionate, and his own pinkie finger curls over John's, like a silent pact; and _no_, that's not just for comfort. Comfort isn't like this at all.

_Oh._

Flirting it is, then.

John's lips twitch for a smile, but he doesn't want to let on anything yet. So he simply slips his finger from under Ben's and turns his hand over, letting Benedict trace the lines of his palm instead. And when Ben stops his moving fingers and grabs hold of John's hand altogether, John laces their fingers together to show that he isn't afraid of this, of what it can mean.

The rest of the movie is actually paid attention to, their hands warm and clasped between them, thumbs occasionally rubbing the other's thumb. Neither man dwells on it, nor asks any questions; it is what it is, and they leave it at that.

When Benedict finally has to leave after the DVD runs its course, John helps him into his jacket and pats his back and thanks him for his time, and helping with dinner, and _everything _Benedict has done for John in the past few hours. He wishes him luck on his audition, and Ben smiles so brightly that it can't be false, it just can't.

John wants to lean in, peck Ben's lips. They appear so inviting amidst the ginger stubble, like an island of softness in the middle of a stormy sea. John knows his eyes linger there, on Benedict's lips, but he forces himself to snap his eyes upward and crinkle them into a smile instead.

He shakes Ben's hand, fares him well again, and then watches Ben leave, shutting the door behind him.

So, then, instead of talking about one's former-flatmate-he-was-pretty-much-in-love-with ruining a friendly get-together, it would up turning the friendly get-together into a semi-date. How backward it all is, because now John isn't sure what to make of the pair of them. Are they friends? Are they going to start dating?

He isn't sure which he would prefer, or which would work out better. Friendship is safe. One can be friends with someone for ages if they like. Dating is fluid; one can date for days or weeks and then end it. It's less familiar than friendship, in a way, and more difficult to maintain. Friends with benefits land between the two, not-quite-friendship-anymore-but-not-quite-dating-either. It's a jumble.

John exhales languidly and runs a hand through his hair. He needs a haircut.

John calls in an appointment for a haircut tomorrow, and settles down into his plaid chair for a read. He picks up his book and dives into it, time passing by without much internal dilemma, and it's nice. He loses himself in a character for a while, in an alternate world, and it's grounding, which is a bit of a paradox, but one John enjoys.

When it's time to be off to bed without falling asleep in his chair or leaving too little hours for rest before work tomorrow, John marks his book and sets it down, standing and stretching. He hears, then, his phone going off.

The text awaiting the doctor makes him smile.

_Not sure what to make of tonight, but I think it would be nice if we went out next week, if you're not opposed to a date. – Ben_

John's grin broadens. _Not opposed at all,_ he texts back, _And I think that's a wonderful idea. Never dated a man before, to be frank. Don't expect too much. –JW_

There's a pause after it's sent, and then: _Didn't think so. Your flatmate seemed like the first you would have considered. But I'd hoped you'd consider me. Not at first, of course; I did just think we'd be friends. But now I want to try. – Ben_

_And that's fine by me,_ John says, _Message me tomorrow about a place and time. I'm off to bed now. Thank you for trying, actually; I wouldn't have made any move at all, even if I do like you enough to have thought it briefly. –JW_

His heart is blooming in his chest after being so long cramped and closed and tired. There's life back in it, now, and he doesn't know when, exactly, this was all brought on – did it start with talking about Sherlock? Did it start when whatever went through Ben's mind to make him initiate that little touch? Did it start with the hug? Or did it begin when they met, a steady build from the second their eyes met? – but John isn't complaining. It feels nice to have someone to be personal with, both as a confidant and a potential lover. John hasn't had either of those in ages, and rarely at once, in a single person.

_A date it shall be, then, haha. Goodnight, John. And if another nightmare crosses you, don't hesitate to call me again. I don't mind. – Ben_

_Thank you,_ John texts back with a gentle smile. _That means a lot. See you later. Goodnight. –JW_


	7. Chapter 7

**You guys are so awesome ;A; Let us love you all down! Thank you so much for your support and for reading! C: xx**

* * *

><p>Chapter 7<p>

* * *

><p>"Piss off!"<p>

"Sherlock..." A thoughtful tone clambers from the living room.

And the detective doesn't even have to ask who it is, for there could be only one person who knows his current location.

Sherlock tosses his jacket on the coat hanger and doesn't bother to view his older brother, standing in the room, with a smirk on his face. Sherlock's guest shifts his weight to the side, as one hand leans against his brolly and the other in his pocket.

"Bugger off, Mycroft!" He says with such disinterest.

"You're aware of my being here is important, yes?" Mycroft shows no affect to the other Holmes' remark and takes a step, eyes trailing around the room, as if admiring Sherlock's handiwork on the wall. Sherlock follows Mycroft's gaze as he stands beside the couch. "And I always thought you gave up on making food for others than yourself after that try with Mummy." He's full of curiosity and wonder. His gaze is met with Sherlock, who doesn't look impressed at all with his brother in the room. "Pasta? How adorable..." He chuckles and Sherlock flinches. "I hope you're being careful with John. We've yet to catch all of his henchmen."

"I know what I'm doing!" Sherlock grimaces. "He is not in harm's way! And he _won't_ be," he says, as if he's absolutely positive. There isn't room for doubt, anyhow. "I will make sure he's safe." In all honestly, Sherlock knows John has a chance of being attacked any time soon and he's afraid that he won't be there to save him.

"If someone who is remotely loyal to Moriarty finds out about you, then he won't be," Mycroft points out, clasping onto his umbrella and poking his brother in the stomach.

"This was _your_ stupid idea!" Sherlock waves a hand to the side. He glares at the brolly in Mycroft's hand and shoves it aside. He moves closer to Mycroft. "You knew very well that I'm risking not only John's safety, but mine as well. And I hardly care about my well-being. You told me to get some fresh air, and so I _did_!" Sherlock shouts and he knows it's happening; he knows he's losing control over his emotions. This is raw and foreign to him, and wouldn't happen with much of anyone else. However, when Mycroft is near him, he can't help but go off on his brother with rage. Especially in this case. "And now you're telling me to be _more_ careful?"

How can one lovely evening turn into one giant mess, and so suddenly?

Sherlock breathes sharply, withdrawing the space between him and Mycroft.

He needs to go outside. He needs some more air. He needs to be away from this case. He longs for comfort. He longs for a place where he can actually call home. He _longs_ for John.

With a quick glimpse, Mycroft already detects his brother's mood. "Sherlock..." He sighs. "I'm worried about you."

"_Piss_ off! I'm going out again!" Sherlock goes for his coat.

"Sherlock!" The other Holmes brother calls with anguish, wavering in his tone.

The detective glares at Mycroft. "Can't you see that you've ruined my evening already? Would you just do me a favour and _go away, Mycroft_?" It sounds more of a demand, rather than a request.

Mycroft stands completely still, bewildered by Sherlock's spoken thoughts. He gapes at the other, realising his wrongdoings, and his face goes a bit pale as he calculates his upcoming words.

"I'm just _warning_ you, Sherlock!" The younger Holmes' expression grows darker. Sherlock looks fed up, as if Mycroft has told him those very words a thousand times, throughout their whole childhood, or even their life. "I know you're gaining a lot more in this, as well as John. I'm just saying that you should be more careful. Because right now, you're not 'Sherlock' when you're with him. You're '_Benedict_.'" He swallows thickly and Sherlock rolls his eyes. He forces himself to sound sarcastic, "I _love_ the little act you pull off when you're with him. You're free to be someone else, then. But it's a bit close to how you want to actually be with him as yourself, isn't it?"

"Go home already, Mycroft." Sherlock proceeds to say, tone tight.

Mycroft tries a different approach. "You're a lot happier when you're with him."

"Whatever..."

"Like before, but a lot more… _smiley_." Mycroft demonstrates with a wide grin, one that Sherlock has used in front of John not so long ago.

"Make sure the door doesn't hit you on the way out," Sherlock spits as he grabs his violin. He plucks at the strings to see if it's in tune or not. It's been a while, after all. Maybe it needs some tuning (it's something to do with his hands, anyway, to keep from punching his older brother in his big nose).

"If I'm correct, he even said that he loved you, Sherlock."

Mycroft tries not to blink twice when he hears the violin drop on the ground. He's suddenly met with Sherlock's furious gaze.

"What?" Sherlock sounds empty, but at the same time, warning. As if his soul had been sucked out and there is nothing left but an angry animal deep inside.

"You know what I just said." Mycroft retorts.

Sherlock is _livid, _but he keeps his voice carefully flat. "Why did you bug his place? I told you not to in the first place."

"I _didn't_." Mycroft frowns. "I have someone who is very good at lip reading."

Sherlock examines the other as he looks at the time on his pocket watch. There's no point in deducing Mycroft, the detective knows him far too well. Wasting his breath and time on his brother does not interest him. Obviously he has a spy who was looking into John's flat windows – _John should really use curtains,_ Sherlock thinks; _how careless of him. _

His mind is already having an in-depth pondering about a certain ex-army solider instead. He sighs, as he turns away from the other Holmes. He finds his hand in his jeans pocket, fiddling with his mobile. His phone feels warm, much like John's hand had, and he breathes deeply, recalling to that close moment where he could have pursued John's lips.

Close imitate touches and interactions feel so alien to Sherlock. It was rather strange when The Woman enclosed her hand over his, and he remembers the sensation, the chill of the spine. However, John was more warm and friendly. Sherlock knows there is a huge difference between the two, even if he can't quite place _why_.

He was close to voicing his opinions to Mycroft, but the sudden thought about his brother frowning upon it stops him. When did they ever discuss something so personal? And he's aware that Mycroft thinks the young Holmes is innocent and inattentive when it comes to sex and things of intimate nature. So instead, Sherlock picks up his instrument again and continues to pluck the strings.

"It's nice to see you happy again. You're full of life when you're together. _Both _of you," he remarks as he makes his way to the front door. Mycroft raises a brow at his brother, knowing he will not get another word out of him unless it's to insult him. "I brought you more strawberries in case you're hungry!" Mycroft voices before his footsteps disappear out of the house.

Sherlock places his violin down on the coffee table before heading to the fridge to see that his brother was indeed right about his last statement.

Like lightning flashing across a dark, cold, and stormy night, an idea pops into his head. He grabs his jacket and flees the flat in seconds, even before Mycroft's car makes a turn from the corner of the street.

XXX

Sherlock has given John's words a lot of thought. He's gives himself time to mull over of what was said the night before. He didn't really expect John to even speak about his flatmate, about _Sherlock, _but when he had (always surprising Sherlock in the oddest ways), he had watched the tension release out of the doctor in seconds.

He thinks his heart even stopped beating for a moment, during their tense conversation. And for once, he was at a loss of words. It frightens him because he's stunned by John; he isn't sure what to say to the latter, because when the doctor utters the words of his affection – his _love _for Sherlock – it halts him. And Sherlock isn't sure what to say or what to do.

So he does what 'Benedict' would do and just simply says there is nothing wrong. Because, technically, feelings are not wrong. Actions led by them can be, like murder done in a fit of jealousy and rage, but having feelings themselves; that is not wrong, and even Sherlock knows that.

In any given circumstance, anyone can be speechless when one confesses their feelings for their close friend. In John's case, his feelings for Sherlock.

Sherlock's sure that he has some hidden feelings for John, but he never came to the conclusion of John's point of view of where he stands. And apparently, they both stand on the same line.

_Love? What a ridiculous feeling! _

Sherlock repeats to himself because he's nowhere near to the feeling of 'love' when it comes to John. Or perhaps, that's what he keeps convincing himself: that maybe he is not capable of _loving _the ex-army solider, or anyone, for that matter. It's either this, or he is in denial about the whole thing because he feels he doesn't deserve it. And maybe Sherlock has always been in denial because he feared about the outcome if he were to take the next step: "_What if he doesn't feel the same way, __doesn't need me like I need him?" _

Yet, indeed, John _does _need him the same way; that much is apparent_._ And that changes things.

So what if Sherlock feels a bit light-headed after their conversation, or if he has the need to feel some release, to find out that it wasn't only him who had his chest tighten at the thought of the other every now and then?

So, Sherlock thought: if reaches out for John's hand, attempting not to be shy (and he knows how human interactions work), it should be accepted, shouldn't it? And when John holds it, like a newborn stage, past the line of friendship – then is that love? Is that romantic interest?

Except it didn't happen that way, not quite. Sherlock wasn't technically himself when it happened. The detective won't admit it, but he thinks it could have been romantic interest. It felt a bit like it should be.

_But what is love, anyway? _

The chemical process of it is simple. Sherlock has long since studied and calculated all that. But even so…

Everyone interprets it in so many different ways. If Sherlock feels at peace in John's company, or if John feels happy and more relieved when he's with Benedict, then is _that_ love? If not, could it _become _love, like a chemical reaction?

They've held hands before, when they were handcuffed. And even though it lasted for a couple of seconds, it makes Sherlock wonder: What difference does it make now? That wasn't a movement toward romance, nor subtle affection to indicate that there is more to their friendship. It was simply to enable them to run quicker, more efficiently, without tugging on or harming the other's wrist.

_The difference that I see besides the obvious of the reasoning behind the action is that I am, in John's eyes, no longer 'Sherlock,' but 'Benedict.' –You're a completely different person to him now, Sherlock! _

And he can't get his head around it. Sherlock isn't so sure if he _loves _John. But there is… _something _powerful there, something he's never experienced with anyone else, never felt for anyone else. If so, then, when and how will he know that what he feels is or will become _love_? When?

_When my pupils dilate or when I think I cannot breathe anymore when we're standing so close together? Please do not tell me it's like one of those teenage drama or romantic films!_

Sherlock peers back at his phone, to see if John got lost on his way to their meeting place. He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment to recollect himself. He feels his heart beat a bit faster, but he ignores it.

_If our company for each other is needed for now, and if this date turns out well, then I don't care if it's love or not; I just _need _John, and I will stay with him as long as that need is reciprocated. _

He fiddles with the basket he has around his arm. Sherlock reminds himself the reason why he decided to take on the persona of 'Benedict': as an experiment to see John, to give himself comfort that he is still doing fine (which John was not, but he is improving, now), and to see if John would recognise him.

_And here I am, about to go on a _date_ with John! Unbelievable! _Sherlock opens his eyes and searches the crowd, clustering around the busy tube station. _I'd never imagine this to happen... It is definitely an unpredicted outcome, but a result I am glad to factor in, because it is intriguing and… pleasant._

He leans against the stone wall at the entrance of Hyde Park, observing the people around the hotdog stand, with the buses and cars nearby being held up by today's traffic. He keeps his mind off his muffled and scattered musings and attempts to see if he can spot John before the doctor spots him.

Sherlock hasn't even made his way inside the park, but he can guess it is as busy as it can be on a warm and sunny day in London. Groups of tourists make their way past the archway, through the big green gates, and many families with their children and others with their dates, wonder past Hyde Park and into Green Park across the road that isn't very far away.

He feels the heat from the pounding sun and he regrets the fact that he didn't bring his sunglasses. The detective contemplates if he should buy ice-cream for John, but before he can make the decision, John emerges from Hyde Park Corner Station, looking the part for a warm day.

Sherlock beams without acting as John makes his way through the passing crowd to reach his date.

"Sorry for being late! There were delays on the Piccadilly Line." John gives Sherlock a one-arm hug because of the basket the latter is holding. He bashfully smirks, eyeing the park behind him. "Strange how it was so rainy a couple of days ago, and then the weather decides to be all nice and warm!"

"We might as well make the most of it, shall we?" Sherlock grins, as he links John by the arm and together they pass through the stone archway and into the park.

XXX

Even though the size of Hyde Park gives plenty of people the advantage of the greenery, it's also packed with loads of groups of those that belonged to London, the opposite side of the globe, or anywhere else. There's also the odd number of couples in the park, Sherlock notes wherever he and John pace by. In the end, it's rather hard to pick a place to sit down, especially one that has a good amount of shade and space and privacy from everyone else.

The pair find themselves strolling through the park for a great amount of time and John lets Sherlock surprise him for what they have planned for the day. Many flowers bloomed from the recent rain, all in various vibrant colours, making everything flourish in its own beauty.

Whilst they walk together, when Sherlock and John stop linking arms together, they hold hands instead, and Sherlock attempts not to glance over at his friend to see his reaction. John looks relaxed and content, as if they've been together for much longer. It's relieving, and Sherlock finds he doesn't need to glance over as much anymore.

They eventually pick a spot to sit down by the Serpentine Lake, a bit close to the bank, but a good distance from anyone disturbing them.

John stretches his arms in the air while Sherlock opens up the basket. "What have you got in there, Ben?"

"It's a surprise, of course!" he replies with a small chuckle. He takes out a small blanket for the both of them to sit on. John stares at the latter in awe, as Sherlock lays it out. "I do insist that you take a sit, John. I've prepared a lovely meal for us."

"Am I going to die, Ben?" John jokes, and the detective smiles as he sits beside him.

"I hope you don't. Dying on the first date isn't really a good impression, isn't it?" He quirks another bright smile and he could have sworn he saw John blush a second ago.

"We're having a picnic, aren't we?" John muses, as if asking for clarification.

"Is it not obvious?"

"I thought we'd take a ride on the boats instead." John chuckles again, then, and it melts Sherlock's heart. "I'm kidding, of course." Sherlock nods, takes a plate full of well cut sandwiches out, and spreads out the meal in the centre of the blanket beneath them. John blinks. "That is a lot of food, Ben!"

Sherlock bites back a triumphant grin. "That isn't the best part of it." The latter peels off the cling film from the bottom of the plate. "Please, dig in!" He hands him the plate and John blissfully accepts a sandwich. Sherlock takes one as well and they begin to eat and surprisingly, it tastes alright, even if Sherlock could stand not to eat for a few days yet, it's nice to do it for the sake of joining John.

"Oh my God. Ben, these taste really good," John says in wonder, munching happily.

Sherlock glances down at his own food. "I'm glad that you like them, but they're nothing special."

"Awh, Ben, I feel so horrid for not bringing food." John swallows, peering at his date. "I should contribute _something, _even if you asked me out first. It only seems fair."

Sherlock finishes his first sandwich. "It's no problem at all, John. I wanted to surprise you!" He looks down for a moment, biting his bottom lip. "In fact, I was a bit worried that you wouldn't like the idea of having a date in the park, it being so public and you so unaccustomed to dating men. But I thought if my cooking didn't please you, then surely the weather would, right? It's a lovely day, after all. No one could be unhappy when it's this nice out," he tries to smile what he hopes is coyly, and he spies John's expression change.

"Ben..." John wipes his mouth from any crumbs and he stares deeply in Sherlock's eyes. "Normally, I'd take my dates to the pub or to a restaurant, and yes, I'll admit I felt a bit hesitant, but you impressed me a lot, and I'm glad we're here." He slowly extends his hand, overlapping Sherlock's. "I didn't except you to be a 'going-to-a-park-and-have-a-nice-picnic' type of lad. It's very romantic of you, Ben. Thank you." His eyes glimmer with something that Sherlock can't seem to detect. "You put a lot of thought into this. So, really, thank you," he says again, and Sherlock replies by lacing their fingers together.

"John..." He whispers. And if his pitch drops into his familiar Sherlock-voice instead of his Benedict-tones, well, then John doesn't seem to notice or care.

Sherlock feels his heart in his throat, as he tries to muster up more words. He swallows thickly. John progressively leans in and closes the gap, and Sherlock can't help but close his eyes. He feels John's breath upon his skin, and he's close to thinking his heart is going to leap out of his chest at any given time. Their hands never letting go, John presses his lips onto Sherlock's cheek.

They draw away and Sherlock's jaw falls open, as they both stare at one another. John has his other hand over his lips and his cheeks are tinted a darker shade of pink.

It takes a few more seconds for Sherlock's brain to compute and he blinks, recollecting where they were.

In all honestly, no one would really care if they witness them sharing a kiss or cuddling, so it didn't strike John's imagination that anyone would be bothered. Sherlock smiles to himself. He peers inside his basket, taking out two plastic cups and a bottle of lemonade.

"Sorry, I couldn't get us wine, and I thought this better suited the weather anyhow." He says, breaking the silence and John snaps his head to look at him, taking him out of his spell full of thoughts. "Lemonade?"

"Are you trying to get me sugar-hyper?" John raises a brow playfully.

Sherlock sniggers as he untangles their fingers. He already misses John's touch. He pours a cup for John and one for himself, and they clink their plastic glasses together. He feels a bit young and a tad foolish, but in this moment, Sherlock realises that he's perfectly content.

XXX

"I hope you have room for dessert!" Sherlock pokes John's stomach, and the doctor laughs at the touch. "Are you ticklish, John?" He eyes him, a playful smirk dancing across his lips.

"No!" John throws his hands around his stomach. "I just... No one touches me there, really. Unless, I guess, we're hugging or something, and even that's hardly a touch." He focuses his view on something else other than Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn't say anything else until he brings out the dessert he's been saving for last. And even John gasps at the look of the strawberry cake after Sherlock lifts up the cake tin lid. Not only John's mouth drops, but his eyes go hungry and watery at the sight.

The cake is covered with a thin layer of icing and two strawberries are plucked in the middle of the cake. Sherlock nods to John, claiming that he had made it.

"Tell me that you did not make this for us!" John gapes more, almost representing a fish out of water. Sherlock dips his chin with another nod and his eyes soften at the sight of the latter being in complete awe. "You never cease to impress me, Ben! I might have to marry you after this!" And Sherlock laughs and John sends him a serious expression. "No, really, Ben. I will." Then he laughs again, cheeks pink. "Damn, if I could, I would any second! And you said that you can't cook for others."

"I must say it must have been the pasta that motivated me to bake for today." Sherlock recalls, thinking to when he rushed through the nearest Sainsburys to grab the ingredients last night. Because he left the flat in a hurry, Mycroft joked, asking where the fire was. "My baking skills aren't as standard as the cakes in 'Patisserie Valerie.' I should take you there one day, John. Their cakes taste divine, much better than what I could ever do!" John pulls a face at Sherlock, as if he's lying. "Honestly. Cooking I can do simply enough, when I need to. However, baking is something I've had little experience in. I'm just glad the measurements are so exact, or it would have been a disaster."

A year or two after Mycroft and Sherlock's try on making their Mummy's lunch, the boys took a bakery class from their cook. They succeeded in making chocolate chip cookies, and the Holmes boys had a small competition on making a cake for their father's birthday. In all their efforts, Mycroft had failed because it managed to get burnt and Sherlock's cake won a hug from Mr Holmes.

Mycroft refused to bake after that, and Sherlock took it as a small hobby whenever he was bored, and even let his brother taste some of his delightful goods.

_That's probably why he loves sweet things and can't keep to his diet. _Sherlock humours himself, catching John still gaping at the uncut cake.

Coming back to himself, Ben raises a disposable knife and offers, "Want a slice?"

"Oh, yes, please, Ben!"

Sherlock cuts a slice for John and the doctor stares at the piece of cake like it's the single best thing he's seen in year, like a child having the first slice of the good and yummy birthday cake at a party.

"It looks too beautiful for me to eat." John murmurs, as he examines his given piece. He fiddles with the fork, Sherlock has given to him and he hesitates to touch it.

Sherlock smiles amusedly – John _must _be exaggerating, now, because Sherlock can hardly decorate anything, although he did make sure the frosting was perfectly smooth and crumb-free, as he is a perfectionist. Teasingly, not meaning it at all, Sherlock poses, "Do you want me to feed you, John?"

John absently licks his lips, turning his attention back to his date. "Aren't you having a slice?"

"I'm rather full, actually." He pats his stomach for effect. "I'll have a slice later, though." He won't. he hardly has a taste for sweets. He already tested the batter and frosting during preparation, so he doesn't need to have some now.

"You're being unfair, Ben," John remarks.

Sherlock tilts his head. "How?"

"Because you baked a cake and you won't even taste it." He tries not to frown. "Have you tried it yourself?"

Sherlock pouts. "Are you having doubts on my baking skills now?"

"No!"

"Well, then, I'll have to take a bite myself, won't I?" He snatches the fork and plate from John and takes a big bite. The ex-army solider views the horrifying scene of his slice being taken away from him, and it's gone in seconds, hardly registering. "See? No poison." Sherlock grins before he breaks into a loud laugh. "You should have seen your face, John!"

"That's not funny, you ass! You ate my piece."

"There's always enough for you, John." He gestures towards the cake and cuts him another slice. "There. Now you don't have to worry. It's the same cake."

"Of all the things to pull…" John grumbles for a moment, but he's soon sighing. "I'm sorry that I had my doubts, Ben." He looks away for a second.

"I don't blame you. Maybe we should learn how to trust each other more, right?" He winks. He leans back on his elbows as John takes a bite out of his slice. Sherlock views the park as far as his eyes can see, and he feels so relaxed, as if the day could go on forever and he wouldn't mind or be bored in the least.

He ponders on how John and him never acknowledged this area more. They were always out and about on crime scenes, so they never had a full moment when they were in such contentment. They never got to stop and say how lovely the sky looks when the night slowly starts to fall in, or count the stars together.

_That's so dull. Who would I want that? _He blinks, before glimpsing at John, who is probably on his second slice by now. The doctor isn't aware that Sherlock is so deep in his musings, and he licks the fork prior taking another bite, lost in his own bliss to be even remotely aware.

Sherlock feels the lump in his throat come back again, without any reason. Maybe it's best for John to share a moment of peace with somebody; no danger, no crimes and cases, no Moriarty and no more risk-taking. But he wonders if that might bring back the tremors in John's hands, the limp in his leg.

Sherlock cannot imagine John settling down with someone. It's hard to picture it, and he soon knows that he doesn't want that for John. Not now. Not until John is fully safe, and even then, Sherlock isn't sure he would like to _share _John with anyone. He would like, if possible, for them to return to their former routine, flatmates and partners in crime solving. But he doubt they can ever have that again, even in part. Not after all that's happened, that can still happen.

Sorrow envelopes his musings now, and he can't think properly with all of this new emotion.

It's here that Sherlock takes notice of the way John is staring at him. "Ben? Are you okay, there?"

Sherlock blinks rapidly. "Y-yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry, I spaced out again..."

"Heh, you do that a lot." John puts the plate and the cake back into the basket and rests his head against Sherlock's shoulder. They move for a bit to adjust, and Sherlock is laying down on his back, with John's head on his stomach, as they look out into Serpentine Lake. Ducks and swans are fluttered around a child and her parents, who are feeding the birds.

"Are you thinking about your audition?" John asks. Their hands find each other and they're soon intertwined, as if it's second nature. It might be; their hands fit so perfectly, it's a anatomical wonder if John's genes were specifically engineered to one day grow to fit into how Sherlock's genes have sculpted him, in height and build and, apparently, in appendages.

"Yes..." Sherlock lies, as he uses his free hand to play around with the hair at the back of John's head.

"You like to think a lot, don't you?"

"Hmm. I did study psychology and the like, I told you."

"Yeah, I remember," John says. There's a pause. "If you want to talk about it, I'm all ears."

"Thank you, John." He strokes his hand through John's hair. He swallows again, and he feels the need to tell John softly, as if to make up for all he's done, "You're amazing; you know that, right?"

The doctor brings Sherlock's knuckles towards his lips. He huffs a laugh over them. "Don't be silly. I'm nowhere as good as you. This date is perfect. _You're _amazing." John pecks their laced hands and they lay there in silence, letting the park swallow them into its world full of nature.

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, thinking if it would be like this, if they ever went out on a date as themselves, as Sherlock and John, not as Benedict and John.

He knows it wouldn't be, but he keeps this thought to himself.


	8. Chapter 8

John has never been on a first date as successful and affectionate as his one with Benedict.

In fact, he has never been on a first date that has gone remotely well at all, and only one or two dates in memory that have gone half as well as that one, and the few he can think of that _had _were with women John dated before he left for Afghanistan, before he became the pitifully damaged man he thinks himself to be now. And those one or two dates were much father along in his relationship, which makes his time with Ben incomparably special and curious.

He has honestly never thought of what it would be like to date another man. He hasn't even let the thought cross his mind even when his sister came out to him, even when his sister got engaged years and years later to Clara, and even as she tried dating other women after she and Clara divorced. Because, oddly, Harry being a lesbian has never made John think about himself. He has always known himself to be strictly a ladies' man, and he was fine with that.

But since Sherlock Holmes…

Well. Simply put: his mind has changed and his horizons have been broadened. He isn't as opposed to the thought anymore, and upon meeting Ben and spending time with him, he feels like this is something he wants. Something he feels comfortable with, despite all the protests he's made in the past when people implied that he and Sherlock were together.

In fact, John thinks he denied it so much because, in retrospect, he _wanted _it to be true, but knew it _couldn't be. _He thought it would never happen, no matter how much a secret part of him desired it, and he then resigned himself to never let himself dwell on the concept. So when it was brought up by others, he dismissed it immediately because it _hurt too much _to think how it wasn't true, would never be true.

John sighs and tosses off his covers, feeling too warm. His ceiling fan is on, but not very high, and he wonders if he should crank it up. But he's too tired to get up, stretch to tug on the dangling chain, and crawl back onto the bed again. So he opts to expose himself instead, forehead blotchy with sweat.

He can, at least, have this thing with Benedict. Ben is not a substitute, John keeps assuring himself. Ben is simply someone who John is interested in, feels safe and comfortable with, and actually attracted to, just a little. Enough, anyway, that he likes being physically close to the man.

But, John recalls with another, more forlorn sigh, he hadn't possessed the courage to go through with kissing Ben. It felt too soon, and not quite right. So he kissed his cheek instead, just to signify _something _and not completely chicken out. Ben seemed fine with it, though, so John hopes, next time, maybe Benedict will initiate the kiss, and maybe, just maybe, then John will have the courage to do it.

God, he can't believe that he's even _in _this situation right now.

It kind of… maybe John want to giggle. With hysterics or not, he isn't sure, but the urge is there, a bubble in his chest that wants to be let out in intermittent sputters of air and vocals. He shakes his head at himself, smiling. Is he actually… _happy_ again? How bizarre.

John groans and shifts position again, un-sticking himself from his sheets. He really is too hot. There is something about tonight that feels too warm, and it isn't even that bad, it's just the way that his room feels.

Heaving a tremendous sigh, John forces himself up and cranks up his ceiling fan, and then turns to his window and cracks it open, a breeze instantly sweeping through the stuffy room.

There, that's better.

He doesn't quite return to bed, however. Instead, he gets up, mills around his room, picking up various items and putting them in their place. Then he moves to the living room and does the same.

Flat picked up, he decides to clean his bathroom, because, well, now he can't stop. John strays everything down and wipes it clean, scrubs the loo, mops the floor. He hoovers the hallway and living room carpets. He sweeps the kitchen floor. Does what little dishes there are to be done, then wipes the countertops.

When he's finished essentially doing a once-over of his flat, John settles down into Sherlock's chair without thinking much about it or noticing straight away that he missed is own chair. He doesn't take notice, that is, until he closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and slides down the chair a bit, the leather squeaking against his clothes.

John jerks upward and jolts from the chair. He turn and stares down at it, momentarily perplexed.

And then it all sinks in.

John drops to his knees and puts his face in his hands. _God, what is he _doing_?_

The ex-soldier doesn't go to bed after that. In fact, he spends the remainder of his night curled up in Sherlock's chair, his right temple pressed to one of its arms, his knees drawn up to his chest, angled sideways. His hands lay lax at his sides, palm upward, fingers curled.

He closes his eyes, and only in the wee hours of the morning does he actually get some much-needed rest.

He feels too cold, but it's not something a blanket would fix. It's his heart that feels cold; cold and heavy. He doesn't know what to do about it.

And he doesn't think Benedict could help, so he doesn't text or call him. It's too late, anyway, despite what Ben said. And this isn't a nightmare; it's just a problem John needs to work out for himself, because it's a problem he's been tip-toeing around for the past three years.

Except he's too tired to face it to night, so he simply stays in Sherlock's chair, untouched since the man died, and pretends like this doesn't mean something.

Even though it so clearly _does _mean something.

XXX

Needless to say, the next three dates go just as well as the first.

There are smaller meetings in between the major dates, of course, and a whole slew of text messages and phone calls, mainly the former, and each one is getting more and more dangerously close to being disgustingly adorable, and John feels a bit like a teenager in love, and it's silly and completely wonderful.

Ben is sweet and polite and even though John finds himself initiating many of their touches, once they are started, Ben is also very affectionate and laughs and smiles easily, and he sometimes makes jokes that nearly bust John's gut, and sometimes he says things that nearly stop John's heart.

But sometimes Ben still does something that feels too much like Sherlock, and John doesn't know how to react to it half the time. Most of the time he changes the topic or mood afterward, or he presses on like he didn't just feel like he was with Sherlock again, and sometimes he wonders why he never sees Benedict fully shaved, only ever with a few days' worth of stubble on his jaw, and sometimes he wonders why Ben's hair looks freshly bleached.

But it doesn't matter, in the end, because even though the Sherlock-moments, as John is referring to them, making him feel torn between ending the relationship for fear of using Ben as a replacement and getting closer to Ben for the same reason.

And it's not healthy, not an ounce of it, and John feels like a horrible person sometimes, late at night, when only his thoughts are left between waking and sleeping, and he can't do anything to avoid them.

XXX

They kiss on the lips for the first time during their fourth date. They've come close a few times, but always, _always_ at the last second, John pulls away. It bothered Benedict only the second time, and after that, he simply opted to let John kiss his cheek or temple or fingers or throat instead, and didn't complain, and even mirrored it on John's skin.

But when they finally kiss, it feels to John a lot like falling, the sort one feels before waking up during one of those dreams where your stomach lurches and your face feels clammy and you are shocked into sitting position just before you hit the ground or water or whatever is at the bottom.

They're at John's flat (they never go to Benedict's, John has noticed, not in all this time, but he doesn't complain because he figures that Ben has his reasons for not inviting John, and John is polite and John doesn't pry) for a date much like the night that began this whole thing. John sees Ben's eyelids lower and his breathing become languid and paced, and his face is very, very near John's where they sit on the sofa.

John's breath hitches and he looks down at Benedict's lips many, many times, and after closing the distance between them until scant millimetres remain, John finally closes the chasm and grasps Ben's lips with his own. Between them, John has his hand on Ben's thigh, near his knee, and he's pressing up into the taller man just a bit, and it feels heady and warm and like coming home, but so much like falling, too, because John's stomach is flipping and his heart leaps with rapid thuds as Ben returns the kiss, acting as if he's never done it properly before, and it's like using a parachute to float down into his own yard, it's that much like falling and being home.

When their lips part, John can't help but smile, lips closed and eyes soft, and Ben looks bewildered and intrigued and beyond happy, his eyes bright. And John rubs his thumb where his hand is still on Ben's leg, and then he keeps it there and feels Ben's hand fall over his as they resume watching whatever it is they were watching; John's forgotten, because now he can't stop replaying in his mind the sensation of the soft firmness of Ben's lips on his own.

XXX

Benedict seems like a very private person. All of their dates have been in places that are relatively public, but still secluded, and then they've been in not very public places at all, like John's flat. Each date brings them closer, naturally, but at the same time, John feels like they are going to continually be a bit distant, and it unnerves him.

He decides to confront Ben about it, albeit casually.

"Hey, would you like to like to have a drink with me, watch a game, maybe make dinner this weekend? I was thinking we could go to your flat for it; I'm getting a bit sick of mine, and I'm a little curious to see where you live. I'm sure you have a right fancy place, don't you? You seem the type who can afford better than I can," John suggests one evening that Benedict comes to pick John up from his shift at the hospital and walk with him, hands linked between them.

It's on a night that Benedict is free from rehearsal; he got a part in _Macbeth, _although, he says, he's only an understudy and might not make it to a show at all, and asked that John not get his hopes up to see Ben act. John thought it was an outrage, of course, because Benedict is a brilliant actor, but Ben told him it was because he botched his audition a little. John fails to see how that can be, but he doesn't ask about it. Not every day is a good day, and not every casting director looks as open and supportive as John. Show business is tough.

"Oh, uh…" Benedict stutters, and John eyes him closely, mainly concern and curiosity showing on his face. "I don't think that's a very good idea. I don't live the way you think I do, and my flat is in a constant state of chaos. My neighbours are terrible as well – they get into tiffs with each other often, and I suspect divorce very soon – and I'd hate for you to suffer hearing them. So a rain-check, yes? I'll invite you sometime, I promise. Hopefully once I find time to clean up a bit and, ah, maybe once the oh-so-loathing couple separates, yes?"

It's nothing but excuses, John can tell. But he nods and accepts them, because he's sure they're true – the way Ben looks says that they're true – and he shrugs it off, because even if they're untrue in some way, it isn't his business. They may be boyfriends (and God, it is so strange for John to use that term), but it's not as though he has any right. Ben's flat is his ordeal, and if he doesn't want John to see it, he supposes that's fine.

It will have to be fine, anyway, because John isn't going to let something like this ruin the one good, steady relationship he's had in a long, long while.

XXX

Benedict walks into John's flat, shrugs off his coat, hangs it up, and moves into the kitchen to start making coffee, all as if it's second nature to him. John hadn't even answered the door; he simply heard the knock and let Ben in. He was expecting him, after all.

They move into the living room, cups of coffee in their hands, and if Benedict takes his coffee a little similarly to Sherlock, John dismisses it because plenty of people take their coffee that way, and it isn't something unusual.

Ben, also moving on autopilot as if everything with John is second nature and so very easy for him (and maybe it is, because they have been together for a while now), moves to sit in Sherlock's black chair, and John halts on his way to his own armchair. At John's cease in movement, Benedict looks up and tenses visibly all over. "I'm sorry," he apologises wistfully. "I… wasn't thinking."

"No," John says after a beat, forcing his legs to move again. He takes a seat in his own chair and settles into it, placing his mug on the end table. "It's fine. No reason not to sit there. I don't think I'd let anyone else do it, but you can. It's fine if you sit there," John murmurs, and he finds that he means every word. No one else would work in Sherlock's chair, but, somehow, it seems right that Ben is sitting in it.

"I love you," Benedict blurts, and when John nearly chokes on his coffee and turns to stare at his boyfriend, the look of shock on his face tells John that Benedict hadn't meant to say it.

They've been together for about two and a half months now, and they've been on countless dates. Ben is as enigmatic as always, and John doesn't mind (after living with someone like Sherlock, it becomes easier to accept that some people are just naturally mysterious, and that it only matters how they act around you, and unless they are secretly married or with children but are dating John, it doesn't really bother John that he doesn't know everything about a person).

They've had kissing and snogging sessions (and there _is _a difference, because, in John's mind, he only uses the term 'snogging' if groping and clutching and tongues are involved, which has happened, even though John dictated a majority of it), they've come close to sex once, and John has been thinking for a long while now that he might be in love with Ben, but he hasn't been entirely positive, because it feels wrong to love anyone else who isn't Sherlock, even if Sherlock is dead and has been gone for three years and John should be free of him by now.

John blinks and Ben looks away, looking ashamed and scared, as if thinking he's said exactly the wrong thing, as if he has only recently realised his feelings at all, but has been pondering them for a very long time, and that it is new and unstable and he doesn't want John to reject him.

The ex-army doctor sighs and smiles gently. He sets down his mug, coffee sloshing. He guides Ben's face to his own and presses a soothing kiss to Benedict's lips. He decides that the right thing, and probably the honest thing, when he thinks about it, is to reply, "I love you, too."

And Benedict looks so more assured and, actually, all the more troubled, as if this is even worse than rejection, and John doesn't know why Ben looks that way, or why he's being so easy to read (he isn't always), but he figures that the best thing to do is to kiss Ben and quell any negative thoughts the other may be having, because love is fine, love is great, love is actually the one good thing left in this world, and love can heal things and make problems seem less problematic, if one opens oneself up to love.

John isn't sure he's open to love, really, because even when he felt it so intensely for the only consulting detective in the world, he couldn't own up to it or accept it or understand it or give into it, so why should he think being with Ben is any different?

He knows what they have is a bit muddled and, on John's half, a little bit messed up, but it's John's only constant right now, his only safe, sure thing, so he wants to keep it. He wants it to last for as long as it can.

So he says it again around kisses, "I love you, Ben, I do," and Benedict turns away from half of them, unsure of himself, but John keeps pressing his lips to Ben's face, his stubble prickly and oddly arousing on John's mouth, and when it turns into another snogging session, John isn't complaining in the least.

XXX

"Let's go somewhere tonight," John suggests over the phone one afternoon. "I feel like going out. Any preferences?"

Ben seems to hesitate. "None. Where would you like to go?"

John smirks. "Dunno, exactly. Maybe a pub? We can have dinner beforehand, if you like. I know a man named Angelo who's kind of a friend of mine and might give us a free meal."

Ben sucks in air, but John can't quite tell why. "Sure. Yeah. Let's do that. Anything you want, John."

He laughs and thanks Benedict for being up for anything on such short notice. Ben doesn't laugh, but there is a slight smile in his voice when he says that he can't wait, and warns John not to drink too much because he isn't going to carry John's pissed arse all the way home.

"It's a date, then. I'll meet you outside of Bart's when my shift ends at six, yeah?"

"Will do," the other replies, and John says 'Love you' before hanging up, and he doesn't care that he hasn't heard it since Benedict said it the first time nearly three weeks ago.

XXX

John can't even grasp the situation. It happens all too quickly.

A man comes up and attacks Benedict. Ben fights like a boxing champion, wrestling and punching and discombobulating the man, but he has backup, a buddy of his station elsewhere in the pub, and he, too, jumps on John and John tries to help, tries to assist Ben and protect him during the attack, but he halts when one of the men screams, "He's going to die, Holmes, and you with him!"

And John freezes, and the other man says with blood in his mouth, "Shouldda stayed dead, Sherlock Holmes! Now your little boyfriend is going to pay, just like the boss promised!"

And John stares at Benedict, and he suddenly can see it: the black roots at the base of Ben's head, imagines him without the stubble, imagines him in a dark, trailing pea coat with red thread on the lapel and a blue, plaid scarf around his neck, and he imagines Ben's hair a bit longer and not styled as carefully, unruly and dark, and it matches. It matches perfect.

'Benedict Cumberbatch' is an alias. John has been dating Sherlock Holmes. But, perhaps the most startling thought of all, _Sherlock is alive._

John goes into a fit of unbidden, unstoppable rage and pain, and hurls himself at the two attackers, most likely henchmen of Moriarty, maybe even some of his last ones, maybe even ones that have been tracking Sherlock down for ages now, maybe ones Sherlock has been looking for himself, maybe ones he didn't know existed and didn't expect to see tonight at the pub.

But no matter what the case, John knows that he isn't going to reign himself in at all. He doesn't even think twice about beating either man to death, tearing them off of Benedict/Sherlock and pounding them into a bloody pulp on the pub floor until the owner and some workers are yanking John off of the men and throwing him and his date outside into the wet streets of London.

Panting, John wipes his mouth – blood there, someone landed a punch and broke the skin of his lip – and hisses at the man beside him, "You have some fucking explaining to do."


	9. Chapter 9

It's as if time were simply in their hands to spend at will; but that would be just wishful thinking.

It's bewildering that Sherlock could carry on his well-played lies and disguise in a short amount of time.

And yes, time in a way, made him feel manipulated. As the long spring or summer days linger and the nights grow shorter. Or the one day where he'd just sit at home and do absolutely nothing. He simply thinks to himself how boring it is and how he's just wasting the day away, when he could do something else.

The past three months feels much longer for Mycroft, when he glances at the CCTV cameras placed all over London. He _does_ keep a watchful eye.

He's been keeping a track record of Sherlock and John's outings – rather, he should say _dates_. And it amuses him. Some would point out that it's rather creepy to know what your younger brother is doing; nevertheless, he's frightened that there will be a slip up, and so he watches as a form of protection.

Mycroft feels pleased when he finds out that Sherlock put some good use to his strawberries, after ignoring the last two batches. A pang of nostalgia courses through his chest, and he finds himself frowning, thinking how it would have been much better if Sherlock would have accomplished that task before he 'died.'

He continues to watch Sherlock, as if his brother is playing a game with John. To an extent, it is a game. And he's sure him and his brother would never admit to that, because then they would both feel terribly guilty, and guilt is not something a Holmes cares to feel.

John and 'Benedict's' relationship probably feels longer because Mycroft looks over the tapes when he can, viewing their scenes from afar when he's driving around; Sherlock playing the lead in his performance, having John being plucked from the audience to play along.

He hears well-thought-out sentences stream out of Sherlock and John's unpredicted (and yet obvious) movements and speech, flowing with each other's words. An improvised and on-going piece, with only those two as the actors, and Mycroft is taking the front seat. Almost like a duration performance. And it doesn't stop when the pair separates because they're both far more intriguing when they're alone.

John will be reading or attending to other home tasks, deep in thought, a lot like Sherlock. Mycroft tilts his head to the side, thinking how much influence and manners John has adopted from the detective. And Sherlock will be back on the case, deducing Moriarty's henchmen, from the given information the other Holmes brother sent him.

John eventually falls asleep and Sherlock is drowned in his own case, and maybe. if the detective will and can, he sleeps for an hour before carrying on. And it starts all over again.

When they're not together, they'll be messaging and calling one another. It's a heart-breaking performance; the way they walk beside one another and hold hands or when one is waiting for the other to arrive, it's like a dance. They dance around one another with their emotions either locked in or overly exposed.

It's probably heart-wrenching for Mycroft because he knows both sides of the story (mostly Sherlock's, of course, but he can pretty much guess how John feels). And Mycroft is probably the only one who knows what's really going on. He's the only one observing. He's the only member in their audience.

It doesn't take him long to notice that much the same thing was happening when Sherlock was still '_alive_.' Although, he didn't have to keep close tabs because Sherlock was being himself then, no assassins after he and John. Back then, he was running off on his somewhat pirate-like adventures (minus the ship and the parrot), looking for gold (in other words, cases). And, well, Sherlock always wanted to be a pirate, yes?

Those two were always careful, however. Mycroft thinks Sherlock is not being quite that right now.

So, he concludes, it won't hurt to visit his brother again, after John's third date with 'Benedict.'

"If you're here to warn me again, go away. Spare your lecture for another time; or, in fact, for _never_!" Sherlock doesn't give his brother enough room to interrupt. He draws a thick red mark across an assassin's face. "Two more left, Mycroft..." He regards the living room wall, sounding very exhausted.

"I have new information." Mycroft hands Sherlock a thick folder and the detective takes it with a nod. "We're very close to catching them now."

Sherlock falls silent as his gaze drops to the new documents. Mycroft turns his attention to the wall. More strings attached to more ends, a lot of links, more far than he had imagined. He would say 'good job, brother,' but it would have no effect on him. Mycroft knows Sherlock doesn't have room to consider his praise.

"If you're wondering where the rest of that carrot cake went, then it's in the 'fridge." Sherlock says, disregarding the topic, moving onto something else. He walks over his coffee table before nesting on the couch, reading. Mycroft stares at his brother, both knowing that he wasn't thinking about food. And Sherlock finally lifts his gaze, after a few minutes, mouth open, but no words stringing out. He shuts his lips tight. "You missed your tea time because you were ordering someone to file these papers. Funny how you manage to miss on an important time of your day. It's been a week and a half, since you've been keeping to your diet, that _could_ be a new record for you." Mycroft frowns slightly. "You probably crave sweets and chocolate, especially now, because I mentioned the carrot cake. You'll crack by the end of this week, so don't bother punishing yourself any further; do go ahead and have a look inside the 'fridge." His head drops down, as he examines the next five or ten pages.

Mycroft tries not to smile at the fact that Sherlock has offered a piece of his cake, and that he probably even saved his older brother a slice. Carrot cake was always a favourite of Sherlock's baking. To have his brother say that; it's been one of the kindest things he's said in a long while. Disregarding the fact Sherlock has insulted Mycroft's dieting habits, his empty words filtered his consideration about his elder brother.

_How thoughtful..._

"Don't get mushy about it. It doesn't suit you." Sherlock states as he rubs his eyes.

"Shouldn't you be saying the same thing to yourself?" he asks, taking a sit in one of the armchairs. The detective frowns, turning the next page. "I hope 'Benedict' isn't getting to you, Sherlock." He pauses, considers his brother's disguise in whole. "I do miss your old hair colour." He folds a leg over the other.

Sherlock quirks a smile at the remark. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"I wanted to have a chat." He smiles back, but Sherlock is quick enough to drop his.

"Is this about John?" His voice sounds cold and he rubs his eyes again, letting out a small yawn.

Mycroft doesn't ask why his brother hasn't put on any nicotine patches. He clasps his hands onto his lap. "Then why else would I be here?" he says, and Sherlock sighs, before pinching the bridge of his nose. Mycroft presses on, "You've heard enough of my lecturing; I'll try not to go any further. Be aware that if you continue to do this, you cannot lose sight on the real matter here."

Sherlock shuts the folder and throws it on the coffee table. He locks eyes with Mycroft, but the latter can see how tired his brother really is on the inside. It is like his life's being sucked out of him, and he's watching Sherlock fall apart for keeping up with his appearances, just so he can be pleased with himself with his accomplishments to feel confident enough to see John. Sherlock's eyes look hazy and unfocused. He breathes deeply, as if he no longer has the energy left to yell at the other Holmes.

"You're only repeating yourself again." Sherlock looks away. "I'm not a child. Just tell me the real reason why you're here."

"We lost track on one of the assassins." He bluntly puts it, and Sherlock doesn't move at all, like he already knew or he isn't interested at all.

"Not doing a good job now, are you, Mycroft?" Sherlock sarcastically says. "Did you really mean it when you said that we're close to catching them?"

"There's been a few sightings, from what I've gathered, but current locations are unknown. We were going to get one of them today, but they managed to escape unnoticed." Mycroft gestures to the folder.

"You surely have the right people on the job, then." He retorts sarcastically.

"We're doing our best, and I know you are, too!" He says back with a frown.

"Oh, yes, Mycroft. You're ever so busy with the rest of the government!" Sherlock throws more sarcasm into the conversation, without any restraints. His words sometimes cut deep into Mycroft, even though it's not a direct hit aimed at him, but he can't help but feel hurt. And even though Sherlock looks as worn out than Mycroft makes him out to be, it doesn't stop him from pulling any punches.

"Just be more careful." The elder Holmes taps his fingers on the armrest.

"Go eat your cake!" Sherlock commands and he waves his arm to the refrigerator.

Mycroft swallows slowly, feeling the burn from Sherlock's words. He obliges because he knows there's no point in arguing anymore. In addition, his brother hasn't told him to leave like the other times, and he decides to take advantage of this, because it's been so long since they've stayed in the same room without wanting to murder the other.

Thus, Mycroft stands up, walks over to the 'fridge, and he notes that Sherlock is indeed right; there is a slice of carrot cake left, wrapped on a plate, waiting to be eaten.

He finds a clean fork by the sink after he takes the plate out. He casually strolls back to the armchair. Sherlock already has his knees up to his chest, and his eyes waver side-to-side, as if calculating more facts and making more silent deductions.

Mycroft leaves Sherlock on the couch and proceeds to eat the cake and _oh gosh –_ it tastes the same as before, when Sherlock first offered him a taste. He smiles, thinking how it simply tastes like heaven. He muses how Sherlock never lost his touch in baking.

The Holmes brothers sit, without saying another word, having nothing between them save for the small ticking sound of a clock and the sound of Mycroft's fork scraping against the china plate. Mycroft places the plate on the coffee table, about to leave; that is, until Sherlock's voice reaches him.

"Mycroft..."

"Yes?" He turns 'round to see Sherlock peering back at him, like it's the first time he's properly acknowledged his brother's presence in the room.

There is an unreadable expression on the younger Holmes' face, and Mycroft can't make out what the detective is thinking, nor what he's about to say. Sherlock has never called out to his brother like this before, unless he's about to send forth a sly and crude comment about the latter's weight. Nevertheless, Sherlock doesn't hold the feel of someone about to offend another; it's more like he's about to say something personal, for once. His face isn't tight with anger; instead, it's lax with confusion.

It's takes a few seconds for Mycroft to figure out that Sherlock wants his brother to listen to him. Not because of his state of being, but simply because they're _brothers._

Admiration washes over Mycroft as his expression softens, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, knowing what Mycroft is probably thinking.

"It's already gone too far." Sherlock says, regarding to his – _no_, 'Benedict's' relationship with John. "He's going to figure it out. And when he does, I'll be in big trouble."

"And I'm sure you'll do your best to keep him out of harm's way." Mycroft dips his hands into his pockets.

"He's distracting, but yes, I will." He blinks. "He's smart, but not as smart as I." Mycroft observes the way Sherlock's Adam's apple bobs up and down slowly. Sherlock looks like he's unsure what he's trying to make sense out of.

"You want to tell me what's truly on your mind, or should I take my leave now?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He tilts his head to the side with a frown.

Mycroft lifts his chin up. "I'm sure you don't want me to tell you what you're thinking. It's not my profession to read people; although, it's certainly _yours_."

"John _confuses_ me." Sherlock affirms, as he breaks his gaze from Mycroft.

The older man considers this. "Because you're in a fake relationship?"

Sherlock frowns upon it, before taking a minute or two to reply. "More than that."

"Perhaps you should think about it when I'm not here. You're tired, Sherlock. You should get some rest." Mycroft voices as he heads to the front door.

"I think I'm in love with John," Sherlock confesses, raising his voice enough for the other to hear. Mycroft freezes, hand on the doorknob.

"Is that so?" He asks without turning around.

Sherlock sighs, rubbing his temples. "More or less."

"That isn't a proper answer." He steps back to the couch and Sherlock is already by the windowsill, attempting to distract himself from the fact that he had given such personal and vital information. Mycroft tries again, "Sherlock..."

The other spins on his heel. "What do you want me to say? That I'm thinking way too deep when I'm 'Benedict,' or that it's not really _my_ feelings? I just made it up because that's how you're supposed to feel when you're in a fake relationship with your friend?" Sherlock counters back with questions, full of his own self-consciousness. These are the questions that he's been conflicting with when the very thought came to mind. "It's a fact that I'm not to take so kindly to human emotions because it's useless for work! However, I've been out of it and have been stuck on _one _case for almost _three years_, and I'm beginning to feel the consequences of it!" he shouts, and he doesn't seem to direct it to Mycroft, exactly. Sherlock just needs to say it out loud, so he doesn't think he's being ridiculous. "It shouldn't take me this long to figure this out! The sooner I get rid of Moriarty's henchmen, the better! Sooner, preferably, because I don't have to confine myself in such a small place for years! And better because John doesn't have to feel like he's still missing something!" Sherlock is now facing the other as he rakes a hand through his hair in frustration.

"You mustn't beat yourself up for feeling like that." Mycroft replies. "There is nothing wrong with feeling affection for John. I always thought you somewhat did after taking this long to lie to him. It takes a lot of effort, coming from you, to bake a cake, or even dye your hair ginger, in attempts to be with him." The detective gapes at him with a questioning look. "Lying isn't even part of it, Sherlock. So what if you've fallen for John? It isn't the end of the world." He gives him an honest smile.

It doesn't bother him one bit if Sherlock is in love with John. If the feeling is mutual between the two, then that's perfect. Mycroft's effort of getting John to move out of Baker Street had failed, and he should have known better, to see those two running together on crime scenes. It looks like second nature, to have the one beside the other. It looks _natural_, and they both look comfortable, as if they've been together for much longer. No wonder why everyone assumed they were a couple, from what he's heard. He doesn't dare try to ward John away because he can see how already John has affected Sherlock, and the other way 'round, and it's a mutually beneficial thing.

Sherlock clenches his jaw, analysing his brother's every move for the past five minutes. He soon realises that Mycroft is telling him the truth and it doesn't leave a horrible aftertaste just hearing it from the world's-most-unlikely-person-to-care-about-anything-other-than-his-work.

And Sherlock could blame the amount of dates he's had with John or the conversations they share, in person or on the phone or by text – communicating with John has been a bliss for the detective.

He didn't think that Mycroft would take his feelings so lightly and so well, since Mycroft is the one who said himself that caring for someone is not an advantage. Sherlock feels a bit taken aback, and he needs to recollect himself. He turns around to face the window, bringing his hands together and resting his chin on the tips of his fingers while he thinks some more.

Mycroft nods to himself, taking it as his cue to leave the latter. "Take care, Sherlock," is the last thing he says before decamping the flat.

XXX

Time (for Sherlock, at least), is running out.

Like a beating sound of a heart, time ticks by, counting down the very minutes and hours that is left in Sherlock and John's favour. It mocks Sherlock when he looks at his watch or when he glimpses at the time on John's clock hanging in his living room.

Sherlock is fully aware that the game, the "experiment," will be over, that his disguise will be unmasked, and John will soon find out the truth. He can _sense _it; it's only a matter of _when._

Nevertheless, these are on not the exact thoughts racing in his mind currently. He could care less about how little time they had, because they were rewarded with three months so far, and that, in his opinion, is beyond the success he expected. The time in a way, feels highlighted, as if it needs sign flashing brightly lit colours, like any night in the city.

As their days go by of their established relationship, Sherlock doesn't have the need to care about time because he feels like he's lost in a dream with John. He's lost when he comes into contact with John – if it's a gentle stroke of their fingers or when they're kissing – Sherlock can't think properly.

He's simply lost within a fake and surreal interrelation with John.

Even though their touches don't go any further, it's simply alright. Sherlock's happy to accept anything because he knows he longs for whatever John is willing to give.

When they kissed for the first time, Sherlock felt breathless. He worried that his experience lacked a bit because he hasn't done that before, not with John. His heart rate increased and he felt his face radiate with a blush. It was so astonishing, he wanted to kiss John again and again afterward, because kissing John like that, with a full mouth kiss, was so new and needed to be studied, relished.

XXX

The dream resumes, and Sherlock has to remind himself not to lose himself in the experiment. Although, the term 'experiment' is hardly in action anymore, unless he's making out with John, then yes, the new experiences can be considered experimental.

He finds himself intertwining with more lies and distance from John. The more he continues to lie his way though 'Benedict's' life, the more his heart aches with remorse. He tries to be honest, even if it's merely half-telling the truth, minus the major details. Sherlock tries to recall tales and stories to John about his childhood when he can, altering any names that come up. He finds it strange how he can openly say these things, actually, because Sherlock truly isn't a man for words, nor one to talk so freely about his past.

In turn, trying to speak a bit of his childhood, he does find himself lost in being 'Benedict.'

And it feels eerie, because this is not what Sherlock wants.

He doesn't want there to be any slip-ups, and unfortunately, when John pops up the question about him coming around his flat for dinner, he's reluctant to give an excuse. John seems to take it, but Sherlock can see the suspicion seeping out of John's questions.

But he couldn't do it. It would give him completely away; the location, the personal clothing and other items in the flat, the mess of papers and connections and files on assassins and henchmen and other employees of Moriarty; it would bring the truth out of him, and it's not the time for that, not yet, not with two men left on the prowl.

So he lies again, and tries not to think too much about it.

XXX

Not too far away from Leicester Square Station, Sherlock finds himself standing at the corner of a street waiting for John. It feels absurd for the detective to be rooted to one spot, after running around in the city for so long. It's expected to feel like that, after he and John would pace to crime scenes and now, meeting each other – place to place – it's like their adventures are no longer exhilarating. It's as if not only John – but 'Benedict' – has him positioned in one location for the past couple of months. At the same time, it feels unnerving for him. Nonetheless, Sherlock can argue to that though. His dates with John add as much excitement, like any other crime scene.

As he observes the city's people pass him by, Sherlock feels a bit of emptiness envelope his heart. He cannot explain how and why. Perhaps the reason he feels such a raw emotion is because everyone is making their journey else where, as he stands still. As if the whole world is moving without him.

What must feel usual for others, but natural for Sherlock watching people walk by, sighting their every movement, guessing _their_ story. Already, Sherlock knows. Then he wonders how John sees him – _well_,'Benedict' for.

_Someone that he's familiarizes with 'Sherlock'._ He shrugs his shoulders, quickly peering at his phone, to check the time.

Like before, on their first date, he hears John's voice ring in his ears, pulling him back into reality. And it's a bit funny when he thinks about it, John always seems to be bringing him back to the real world. Sherlock sometimes ponder if it's his loneliness from the past couple of years, that human interaction feels a tad alien. He _needs _someone to remind him, that he shouldn't be alone, as he once processed in his mind.

"Hello, John!" He speaks with a jolly tone and it seems to make John blush a bit.

"Happy to see me?" The ex-soldier asks, after they hug.

"Always!" Sherlock nods and he takes John's hand in his. "I thought we could have our tea in 'Patisserie Valerie'!"

John views the cafe that Sherlock gestures to, with a wondering expression. "Oh, yes! I remember you mentioned this place." He peers through the windows. "And the cakes look very good! Might have to spoil myself."

"I think that's the idea, John." Sherlock chuckles. He waves his hand towards the door. "Shall we?"

"Let's!"

XXX

Fortunately for the pair, the cafe wasn't as busy as Sherlock thought. They were given the choice to sit by one of the windows or at the back. John picked the back with a bashful grin.

"I sort of had a big lunch earlier, so I'm a bit worried I won't finish any of these by myself. They sound so delicious though..." John chews his bottom lip. "So..." He loses his trail of thought or perhaps he's a bit worried of voicing it out loud.

Sherlock leans back on his chair. "So do you want to split one with me?"

John's gaze drops to the menu and back up at the detective. "Well, only if you don't mind..."

"Yes, sure, why not?" Sherlock smiles. "We've been going out for a while now, John." The doctor returns Sherlock's with a wide grin, as if proud. "It's perfectly fine if we share a cake." He adds.

He feels a bit wary to eat but knowing he's sharing with John, it feels like he shouldn't mind at all. His eating habits have more or less changed, whilst being with the doctor. And Sherlock doesn't want him to figure out or voice the fact that 'Benedict' has the same eating patterns as his former flatmate. So Sherlock's tries to eat whenever he's with John.

"How does a 'Mille Feuille' sound?" He glances at the menu, before looking back at the other.

"Sounds good to me!"

Sherlock calls for a waiter and orders. The waiter then strolls away with a bright smile, leaving the couple to return to their previous discussion. John informs the detective about his day and Sherlock finds that doctor doesn't tire talking to him. Even though, they've been dating for a long while now, John doesn't show any interest of boredom and it pleases the latter very much.

When their sweet arrive, John comments how it doesn't compare to Sherlock's bakery. Sherlock attempts to be bashful and modest about it, but John sends him a meaningful smile, having the detective shut his mouth for once.

John's face brightens at the sight of their shared dessert, like the first time Sherlock presented him his strawberry cake. He doesn't miss seeing that small sparkle in his eye, before John asks who should take the first bite.

"You can go first." Sherlock prompts.

Their discussions drift off to outlandish topics and it has Sherlock, going into an in depth conversation about psychology. He later realises, after speaking for a whole ten minutes, John's eyes flicker from Sherlock's pupils, down to his cheek.

"I'm sorry..." The detective trails, as John looks down onto his plate. "Did I confuse you? Or.." He tries again, with a shy chuckle and he sights the doctor doing the same. "John?"

"Sorry, Ben." The doctor sniggers. "I should have told you when I saw it happen."

He blinks at the remark, feeling lost. "Pardon?"

"I wanted to see how long it'll take you to realise. I know that I'm rude for not informing you!" John breaks out into a chuckle. "You got a bit of cream on your cheek!"

Sherlock is facing with John's loud merriment again and he finds himself smiling at the response. Before he can wipe the cream off with his napkin, John tittering stops. Sherlock ignores his heart drumming in his ears – or maybe it was caught in his throat? - when John leans forward, taking his own napkin. John appears to be very concentrated, as he absently licks his lips, taking his time, to close the distance.

It's as if everything _and_ everyone around them has slowed down, (no matter how cheesy as it sounds) but Sherlock's eyes are fixed on John's. It only takes the doctor a couple of mere seconds, to clear off the cream from the other's face. And he sits back down on his chair, as if it was only Sherlock that was feeling such tension.

"There!" He grins.

Sherlock can admit, he feels a bit on edge whenever he and John are extremely close. Not as if John is intimidating but more like Sherlock can sense such intimacy. Sometimes, Sherlock wants to claim the other's mouth and he feels a bit too worried about his well-being – as if he'll lose control over himself - if he starts to act upon his feelings for the doctor.

"You alright there, Ben?" John asks, before he sips his coffee.

"Y-yes..." He breathes. Sherlock clears his throat, feeling his face burn. "Thank you for that."

"No problem, Ben."

XXX

The suggestion lays at the very back of his mind.

Sherlock doesn't want to go deeper into thought, even though he did manage to scratch the very surface of his true feelings for John.

He's stunned to know that Mycroft doesn't think any less of him, doesn't see his sentiment as a weakness, and Sherlock thought that he would regret displaying the whole thing. He opened his heart and mind out for a tiny moment, thinking that it would be frowned upon and disliked, when it turned out to be the complete opposite.

Sherlock will never mount to it, but he's pleased with Mycroft's judgement. In a way, it gives him more of a boost to go in-depth about it. As much as he dislikes it, even after his brother said there is nothing wrong and it's natural to feel that way, he allows himself to muse about it more. And yet, Sherlock can't help but feel a bit disgusted at himself for letting John make him feel like this, human and frail and in love.

_Infuriation._

There it goes again: the annoyance of wanting more than John as his friend and companion, and it infuriates him.

_Like he found his way inside and stole my heart, _Sherlock prompts as he makes his way to his boyfriend's flat.

He wants to accept the fact his feelings for John are real, not fabricated by his own disguise. He knows for sure they are. There is something far more than what this experience was intended to be for in the first place, and that's a sign of the realness of these… _sentiments._

Sherlock makes coffee for himself when he enters John's flat. He's lost in thought, thinking about his muddled mind and feelings of his. So lost, actually, that he doesn't catch the fact that he sits down on _his _armchair out of habit. He instantly looks up at John when he realises his mistake, feeling utterly stupid to be so lost in thought that he managed to sit in the armchair without recalling he isn't 'Sherlock.' He apologizes for his faults, and he's prepared to move to the couch.

John looks contemplative for a moment, before moving to his own armchair, insisting to Sherlock that it's fine.

The detective gapes at John, feeling his heart flutter, not because John finds it okay for 'Benedict' to be sitting down, but because John already has the trust and faith for him to sit down in his old flatmate's armchair.

All of the sudden, Sherlock feels lost again in a dream. In this dream, John had figured it out that it is the consulting detective and he's playing along. He tells him to take a seat, giving him a remembrance of what they used to have and it makes Sherlock feel light-headed, and he silently curses himself for not getting enough sleep. Clearly because he knows he might be going crazy.

Sherlock knows he doesn't make it up in his head when he professes his love for John right there on the spot.

"I love you."

He feels his ears burn, as well as his cheeks. He bores his gaze into John when he turns to him. And Sherlock is afraid that John will reject him.

_Nice timing, Sherlock! _He hears his subconscious say. He turns away for a moment, finding a new interest in the living room.

And just like a simple ticking of a clock, his heart thumps everywhere in his body, making him feel uncomfortable in the room. A lump grows in his throat, and he's glad that there is one because he doesn't want to say anything to John.

Sherlock can't help himself for saying such words. He honestly means it to some degree.

From his experience with John, being in an actual relationship and sharing intimate touches and kisses is what you call love. So, then, he'll let that be true.

But this isn't the case. Sherlock knows there is far more than what you expect from a normal relationship. Even though he got to share something with John that he could not obtain when he was 'alive,' he acknowledges the fact that there has always been something hiding in the midst of their friendship.

Sherlock doesn't need to define the word 'love' anymore because he knows he just does. He loves John Hamish Watson, even if he can't entirely place why or how, he knows with his entire being that it is true.

He loves him enough to go through a hair-dying experience and a new wardrobe, to see how the doctor is. He loves him enough to know he'll even try to bake to win over the ex-soldier's heart. And even though it's not the _real _him, it's one side he hardly got to adapt.

The whole reason why he is 'Benedict Cumberbatch' is because of John. _For _John.

This naked emotion pulls the two to go into complete silence and it makes Sherlock even more weary at the fact the ex-soldier doesn't feel the same. Before his mind can register it, John is already giving him a warm kiss.

"I love you, too," he hears from the other.

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself not to frown. _He just said that he loves Benedict. _Not _you. _

John stares at Sherlock with concern, as if he can sense his moods and emotions so easily. He pulls him into another kiss and the detective isn't sure of himself anymore.

He knows for a fact that he is in love with John, but then realising that 'Benedict' has said it, instead of Sherlock, and John returns it whole-heartedly… Sherlock can't help but feel annoyed and a tint of jealously at 'Benedict,' and he's wishes John would say he loves Sherlock more.

"I love you, Ben, I do."

Affection wavers off from John's tone, as he kisses Sherlock softly. He lets go and gives into John's kisses, and the annoyance he felt before is washed away. It can't matter, not now, not when John's lips are on him.

XXX

Slips-ups would be the hardest, most breaking thing that can happen to the Holmes family. It's something that is indeed _frowned _upon (which is probably why Mummy wasn't pleased about the outcome of her lunch on that one Mother's Day).

Oh yes, there are no mistakes for the Holmes family – which is probably why Mycroft is in a completely unusual state when he finds out the whereabouts of the last two henchmen who belong to one familiar consulting criminal.

How can he be so stupid not to notice that the henchmen have been tracking down John for the past five days, observing his every move _and every interaction with Sherlock_?

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose, as he reaches for his mobile. He contemplates whether to text or call Sherlock, but time was ticking, so he calls Sherlock. He knows Sherlock and John are planning to go to the pub for the night.

His brother finally picks up on the fifth ring. "I'm sorry, but I'm awfully busy." He hears the cold breeze brush past Sherlock as he's walking towards the pub. "Can you message me instead?" Sherlock asks, putting on a brilliant act, trying not to sound peeved by Mycroft urgently calling him.

"Don't go into the pub! They're waiting for you and John!"

He hears Sherlock drop his act on the spot. "Wh-what?" Before Mycroft can reply, he hears Sherlock dropping his phone or probably his phone being dropped because he is being attacked.

Mycroft tells himself that Sherlock will be okay because he's with John, and he suddenly acts out, as a brother, calling for his assistant to get a car.

XXX

It's already too late. John and Sherlock are already inside by the time Mycroft had tried to warn his brother.

Sherlock forgets his mobile phone, on the will to defend himself. He moves smoothly, attempting to dodge every hit, and John is quick to assist him, protection in mind. It's only two men that emerged from out of nowhere (possibly from the nearby pub) and Sherlock's already calculated, it's the very last two that are left in his and Mycroft's man-hunt.

_Hitting two birds with one stone, how lovely. _He muses, before one of the men shouts something out, knocking him back to reality.

"He's going to die, Holmes, and you with him!"

He's sure that it isn't only him that freezes when he feels the words hit home.

_Oh, bugger! _

The weight of time leaves their presence and Sherlock doesn't mind. He knows his time has already run out the moment he got attacked.

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath, regaining himself. He feels a slight burn on his cheek and nose.

_Slight bruising, but nothing that major, _he notes quietly in his mind, and Sherlock thinks back to John.

He had completely forgotten for a moment. He's meant to be 'Benedict,' not Sherlock! He doesn't dare to meet John's eyes, because, now, the cat is out of the bag. Would there be any point trying to save himself now? Can he even make up an excuse for what one of the henchmen said? Could he play it off as, 'Oh, well, you did say I look a bit like your old flatmate, so I'm sure this man is just drunk and confused.'

But, no, it seems that Sherlock isn't as fortunate as that.

"Shouldda stayed dead, Sherlock Holmes! Now your little boyfriend is going to pay, just like the boss promised!"

Sherlock can feel John's heavy eyes on him, taking a full and proper observation.

_He knows. There's no denying it now. _He quirks his lips up into a hidden smile, wanting to congratulate on John's amazing efforts in deducing the very man before him. He feels his heart beat in his ears, feeling the weight of the old remorse and anguish from earlier, and Sherlock wishes he could disregard emotions, like useless memories and information.

By the time he can continue to beat the crap of the assassins, John is already on them, full of rage and pain. He can read the emotions, in not only in his face, but also in his laboured movements. The ex-solider doesn't hold back his strength as he throws another smack in one of their faces. It makes Sherlock flinch a bit, knowing it's entirely his fault.

And soon, they're kicked out of the pub, having the cold slap them right in the face. However, it doesn't compare to the hurt that lingers in John's voice.

"You have some fucking explaining to do."

Sherlock is half-tempted to run away. He's also half-tempted to lean over and wipe the blood from John's lips. He forgoes both options, keeps his limbs in place, ready and prepared for the outcome of John's raging emotions that are sure to come.


	10. Chapter 10

He's been thrown into a tizzy. He can't think straight. The pavement is solid beneath him, and that, at least, grounds him enough to find his voice.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything, _Sherlock?_ Or do you prefer _Benedict _now?" John spits a tad breathlessly from the tussle, but with all the venom he can muster. His confusion and frustration and pain know no bounds. He shakes his head. "Say something, for Christ's sake!"

"John… I never meant for this to happen, you must believe that," Ben – _Sherlock_ – answers, his head hung low, his hand rubbing his brows and down his face, as if he is ashamed and exhausted. But that's not right. Sherlock is never ashamed of the things he does, because he is, for the most part, amoral. His only morals stand in choosing, at least, the mainly-legal side of things, the police's side of things, in the end, even if his methods to get there are borderline illegal, is a moral thing, but the rest of him isn't. So it doesn't explain, really, why he feels any sort of remorse.

John's head won't stop reeling. He sputters out aimlessly, "Jesus. _Jesus. _What has this been, then? A cover? Some kind of bloody way to monitor me, or experiment with me, or something else absurd? God, and I – I trusted you, _Ben, _whoever; and this is what I get? My past coming to haunt me? I must be losing my mind. Are you even _real?_ – No, of course you have to be. My brain isn't that fantastic. I can't create two men and a scene this violent and physical all in my head. So, what, then? You're not imaginary, and too solid to be a spook. So is that it, then? You faked your death?"

"Yes, I did, John, and you must believe me when I say that it was for the best, for your own protection –"

"What? How is gutting me open like a fish by pretending to kill yourself '_for my own protection,' _Sherlock? How is that –" and he suddenly goes white as a sheet, his face falling from its spiteful expression to something utterly mortified. He groans and puts his face in his hands as he sits down on the kerb. "Oh, _Lord. _And it's worse than that. So much worse. God_dammit_."

"John? John, what's –" Sherlock asks, moving faintly closer, as if unsure what he should do, only knowing that he needs John to explain. Well, John doesn't feel much like explaining, but he can't stop himself when it slips out anyway in the heat of this moment.

"You know that I loved you. Love you. Shit," John croaks, and he tears his eyes away from Sherlock's inquisitive ones. "A-and _fuck_, you said it, too! That can't be right. You can't be Sherlock. Even undercover as some made-up persona, he wouldn't say that he loved me. That… that doesn't make any _sense. _None – none of this makes any sense." He puts his face in his hands again. Muffled, he dares to ask, "Why? _Why_ did you do this to me? Friends aren't this fucked up, Sherlock. No one is this fucked up."

"John… You have to understand, it's much deeper than that, and it isn't what you think –" Sherlock tries again, his voice anxious, and that just doesn't sound right.

"No. No. Sod this," John cuts in, standing abruptly. "Call the police or Mycroft or whoever you need to clean up this mess," and he gestures toward the two henchmen lying unconscious and bleeding on the cold ground, "And come by my flat tomorrow around one o'clock. I can't handle this right now, but I might be in a better mood to hear you out tomorrow. But for right now, I need to get the bloody hell out of here." And he turns sharply and screams for a cab, and luckily, one is rounding the corner as he speaks, and they pull over at the sign of his raised arm.

He leaves Sherlock standing there, damn near dumbstruck, and maybe a bit hurt, and that's good. That's good, because he needs to feel something. He needs to know that his actions can affect lesser human beings much more than he thinks it will, because people like John _are _only human.

Except… as he drives away in the back of the cab, headed for home… John can't help but recall what it felt like to kiss and touch Benedict, and knowing that it was Sherlock all along makes his victory of "_good, let him suffer like I had"_ taste sour in his mouth, and makes him feel even more pain than before.

But John doesn't cry. He refuses to cry, especially in the back of a taxi. So, instead, he inhales and exhales jaggedly and forces himself to remain calm the rest of the ride.

XXX

John spends the night thinking.

It makes sense, now, why he trusted Benedict so quickly, why it felt all right for him to sit in Sherlock's chair, why it didn't entirely feel like betraying his feelings for Sherlock by telling Ben that he loved him; it's because Benedict isn't real. It has been Sherlock all along.

John's stomach twists and leaps in his gut. He holds a hand over it and presses his forearm into his eyes and bridge of his nose until he feels like his nose might crack.

Why torture him like this? Why did Sherlock feel the need to disguise himself, keep himself from John? Did it have something to do with those men who were after him tonight?

He can't begin to fathom what goes on in Sherlock Holmes' head. But sometimes John wishes he at least had an inkling. A fraction of an idea, just a clue, would be enough to quell half of his doubts. Because this, what has happened between them? It's nearly more than John can bear.

He doesn't sleep, only dozes, and even then, it's only for a short while before the morning light breaks through and rouses him awake again.

John splashes cold water on his face, ignores his bloodshot eyes and purple bags beneath them, and makes a cuppa. After he's slugged that down, he takes a shower and spends a good ten minutes alone simply standing under the streaming water that is on the brink of being too hot. He just stands there, feeling it glide and drip and flow over his skin, down his back and over his shoulders and everywhere else.

He then spends the next ten minutes doing his usual routine, turning to face the showerhead as he washes his body, brushes his teeth, and shampoos his hair.

Finally finished, John exits the shower and goes about his usual routine.

But those ten minutes of blank thought, merely steam and water and sensation, haunt him.

XXX

When Sherlock arrives, it's just a few after one in the afternoon, and John is seated at his table, face in his hands. He gets up, answers the door, and doesn't look Sherlock in the eye as he does so. He immediately turns away and puts the kettle on instead.

"You dyed your hair back and shaved. And you're wearing your own clothes again," John notes aloud, because even without looking at the man, he saw that he looked like the same old Sherlock and not the alias he's come to know (and mildly fall for, just a little).

"I thought it was appropriate, considering the truth was revealed last night, and my final hindrances were taken care of."

John doesn't mean to slam his mug down onto the counter after reaching into the cabinet for it, but it happens anyway. "Hindrances. So those men – and others like them, I'm sure – are what have been keeping you from revealing yourself all this time? For _three fucking years_?" John manages to get out with only a hint of bitterness instead of his entire tone soaked in it.

Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back uncomfortably. It is akin to a flinch. "Yes," he states around a swallow. "Precisely."

"Yeah, I'll need more of an explanation than that." The kettle whistles. John pours it into a teapot and brings it to the kitchen table. Be gestures for Sherlock to sit down. The other does, timidly, as if expected John to strike him. And John just might, for what Sherlock has put him through. "Go on, then. Tell me everything. I think I have the right to know." He subconsciously holds his breath.

"If anyone does, you do, John," Sherlock murmurs quietly. He sighs. He can't seem to maintain eye contact with John out of shame; good. Serves him right.

John's heart constricts in his chest. He feels the burn and realises that he needs to breathe again. He inhales sharply, sucking in air, and resigns himself to sit. He steals glances at Sherlock, and only on occasion does Sherlock chance a peek from under his eyelashes. His slender fingers play with the rim of his cup.

"Moriarty threatened me up on that rooftop. He explained to me that if I didn't die, everyone I cared about would, starting with you, John, since you are the most important to me. I had a feeling he might pull this, but I thought I might get out of it if I held him captive and forced him into calling off his men. But he shot himself instead."

John is staring, now, and he knows it. It brings Sherlock to raise his own gaze, and once they connect, something locks, and neither can look away again.

"I still didn't know, for the longest time, if he faked it and survived. But I haven't found a trace of him since, so I can only conclude that he is truly dead. But he had many loyalists, many criminals, and plenty of assassins that would follow his orders even after his death, and some who didn't even know he was gone and carried on as usual."

John has nothing to say to that. He waits for the rest.

Sherlock swallows and presses on, "If I showed up, then, they would start killing off my friends. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade; Molly, Mycroft. It didn't matter. They targeted everyone who was associated with me."

"So, what, then? You decided to track them in disguise?" John frowns.

Sherlock makes a face. "Not at first, no. Not as the disguise you saw me in, at least. I was too obvious; I was using my old tricks, but Mycroft caught onto them, found me, and took me hostage for a while, refusing to let me endanger myself when he had a perfectly capable staff to do some of my work for me. He gave me lodgings in a flat the government owns, and he supplied me with research and some answers. Together, we were able to track and take down nearly all of Moriarty's web of men; save for two."

"The two who jumped us last night," John murmurs.

"Yes," Sherlock says flatly. "Mycroft called to warn me that they were onto me, to us, and were going to spring us at the pub, but it was too late, of course. They got us just as he was alerting me of the situation. If it hadn't been for you, they could – and would – have murdered me."

"Yeah, but that's nothing new; I'm always saving your arse," John huffs, and he would smile if he still weren't so agitated. He leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his jumper-covered chest. "So why did you come to me at all, if I was in danger of being killed? And why in disguise?"

"Out of disguise, I would have been recognised, and more danger would have been brought upon you much sooner, before Mycroft and I were finished with Moriarty's men. But I had to see you, John. You… you must believe me when I say that I missed you. I missed you more than I can say, and I had to see you. Mycroft knew it, too; he encouraged me to do it, to disguise myself and check up on you, as an experiment. But I got more than I bargained for when you wanted to befriend me. And I crossed my own lines when decided to reach out for your hand that night, the one that was a prelude to our dating," Sherlock explained quietly, his gaze falling again.

"So some of it wasn't an act, is that what you're saying?" John says lowly, trying to understand.

"Yes," Sherlock says again. "I'm saying that, at first, it was a trial to appease my loneliness and boredom, and I thought I could protect you while selfishly giving in to my own desires. But things got out of hand. The next thing I knew, we were going out, and I couldn't help myself. I couldn't bring myself to end it, even as Mycroft warned me time and time again that I had lost sight of everything, and was becoming distracted."

"That explains a lot," John whispers. Their eyes find one another again, and John swallows thickly around a lump forming in his throat. His eyes burn. He's too tired. He might cry. He pretends that none of this fazes him. "Do you love me, then? Is that was this is all about, ultimately?"

"Yes," Sherlock says in the quietest voice John has ever heard form him. If he hadn't been directly in front of the man, listening intently, and reading his lips, he wouldn't have known Sherlock had even replied.

"God help me," John says with a shake of his head as he stands form the table, "But even with this mess that I might never fully forgive you for, I still love you. You're an asshole, and you've hurt me so much, and I must be a masochist, then, but _dammit,_ I _still_ love you." And he moves to wrap his arms around Sherlock and sink against him.

He feels Sherlock's hands come up and touch his forearm lightly, as if afraid that holding John too much will shatter his already cracked person. But John just squeezes tighter and buries his face in the nape of Sherlock's neck, breathing roughly to keep himself together.

"I am so, _so_ sorry, John," Sherlock chokes. But he, too, doesn't cry. "I'm going to set things right. The worst has passed, I promise you. And now all that is left is to mend _us_."

"Shut up," John says, turning his face to plant his lips on Sherlock's cleanly shaven jaw.

"I do love you, and I'm sorry," Sherlock repeats in a whisper, eyes landing on John's face.

"I said 'shut up,' and I meant it," John repeats, because if Sherlock says one thing more, John _will _cry. He silences the man with a kiss to ensure that won't happen.

He's beyond pleased when Sherlock kisses back instantly.


	11. Chapter 11

"Sherlock!"

He hears from a short distance as a car door is slammed shut. Each quick, heavy step meets with the street, drawing closer to Sherlock, and – _oh, wait, _that's strange. He's sure that Mycroft would never run for anyone, regardless about his weight – he feels a steady hand clasp upon his shoulder, spinning the detective around.

"Are you alright? You're not hurt, are you?" Mycroft speaks, searching for an answer in Sherlock's eyes as he peers at his younger brother. His hands feels heavy on the latter's shoulder.

Sherlock feels hallow and empty for the first time. He feels disorientated to why the other Holmes would care about his well-being and to move so quickly to be by his side – _oh, this is _new – is strange indeed. Mycroft showed no consideration _before_. What makes now any different?

There has been times when Mycroft would flutter by Sherlock's side, questioning about his health and attending to his every need when they were much younger (even when he was swamped with homework). The Holmes brothers were never meant to be so deeply apprehensive over one another. Nevertheless, it didn't stop them from speaking each other like civil people many years ago, or when Sherlock was a young boy, asking his brother to come with him to study the forest at the back of their home. Mycroft didn't decline assisting his brother; he tried to take every opportunity to be by Sherlock's side, since Sherlock has always been the distant one. He regrets not pestering him when Sherlock hit his late teens, because the younger Holmes had taken the leisure of being by himself in thought while Mycroft was occupied by university. They soon grew apart, and many family reunions ruined the rest of what they had before.

An old tone in his voice cried out as he called for the detective's name again. He shakes the other, as Sherlock remains silent, attempting to wrap his mind about what had happened. Mycroft's voice mixes with concern, dread, and remorse, and his bottom lip quivers, realising how cold it feels.

"Let's get you back, Sherlock." Mycroft brings himself to say, schooling himself to be calm and collected again. However, Sherlock knows how _un_collected the other Holmes really is. "I'll get those buffoons off the street!" He sends a nod to the very last of Moriarty's henchmen on the ground. As composed as he appears, he sounds angry for the first time. He adds, reassuringly, "We don't need to worry about them now."

Sherlock remains vacant as he's lead to the car around the corner, from the very opposite to where John had gone. And he doesn't mind, getting into Mycroft's car, even though he has refused many other times, or when he's warned John of his somewhat creepy and observant brother.

He cringes slightly, thinking about John's manner from earlier. He thinks back to how John reacted about everything, and his mind suddenly clutters with mixed emotions and the ache of his heart as Mycroft drives his brother safely back to the flat.

Mycroft doesn't converse with his brother; even when there's a red light, he stays quiet. He glances up at Sherlock in the mirror, and Sherlock hasn't changed his position since he entered the car. He stares into the distance, unfocused with the rest of the moving world. He looks utterly lost in his own musing, and before, Mycroft wouldn't think any different from it, but Sherlock looks so torn and unsure.

And when the car stops at the flat, Sherlock denies the fact that he's crying.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft says with the most honest frown on his face.

His vision blurs with unwanted tears and he brings a hand to his mouth, biting slightly on his finger. Sherlock turns to look away from Mycroft as he inhales a sharp breath. He thought he had enough time to make it from the car and inside the flat to control his emotions, but he was wrong. In all honesty, he had no idea that he would cry, until it actually happened.

He feels his throat and nose close up, forcing him to breathe through his mouth, gaining air in ragged gasps. His chest heaves with agony, making it increasingly harder for him to breathe. And suddenly, Mycroft is sitting down next to him in the back seat. A timid hand extends to his back and rubs it in small circles, in a comforting manner.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft says again, and his voice – so disturbingly concerned – makes the younger cry even more.

He starts to feel pathetic for feeling such heartache over John, and the fact that he's crying in front of his older brother makes him feel small. Sherlock doesn't want to feel like this, and never really feels this strongly in general. If only he were emotionless, he wouldn't be in this mess; or, in fact, if Sherlock were actually _dead_.

Sherlock coughs, wiping his face. He starts to calm down, feeling as stubborn as ever not to talk to Mycroft, and the other Holmes seems to accept it. He gets out of the car and opens the door by Sherlock, nodding toward the flat. The detective sniffs, regaining his composure, and he steps out of the car. And if anyone saw Sherlock right now, they wouldn't have known he was crying just a moment ago.

XXX

When they get inside the flat, Mycroft hands his brother the first aid kit from the kitchen and a cup of tea. Mycroft takes it as a good sign when Sherlock takes the mug, sipping the warm beverage.

Sherlock doesn't open his mouth to say anything; he only opens it if it's to drink more of his tea. He settles himself on the armchair, and Mycroft takes a seat on the couch, drinking his own cup of tea. Minutes pass between the Holmes brothers, and Mycroft stands up to take his leave, knowing that they aren't ones to express one's feelings to each other.

As he crosses the couch, Sherlock stands, as if to speak. Mycroft cocks a brow, waiting.

"Th-thank you." Sherlock murmurs quietly.

Mycroft smiles when he approaches the detective. Sherlock doesn't flinch at the closeness when the other Holmes presents him with a hesitant and awkward hug. In fact, Sherlock bows his head, resting it on the other's shoulder, eyes closed, considering the offer. Mycroft wraps his arms around his brother, patting his back like an older brother would really do to comfort his younger sibling.

More quietness unwraps from the embrace, and finally, Mycroft moves away. Before he goes, he gives the other a worrying nod, and Sherlock dips his chin with a nod back, and in some strange way, it works for the both of them.

Their friendship has reached to unspeakable number of accounts, where they were close to killing one another before. However, the past three years, Sherlock feels something old connect – like him and his brother simply re-drew the same string from when they were children, linking one end to another.

Sherlock observes Mycroft leaving and he goes straight to bed afterwards. His injuries aren't life-threatening, so he doesn't strain for the first aid kit.

His mind needs more tuning and more rest. He simply cannot think about a thing anymore, because he will only feel more heartbreak.

But whenever he closes his eyes, wishing for sleep to fall upon him, he sees John fuming at him. He'll have to wait for tomorrow to happen. John wants to talk to him, but of course, not right now. Later. Tomorrow._ Which isn't so bad, all considering,_ Sherlock convinces himself.

Sherlock wants to stay in bed forever, wanting to avoid John, but he has to. Part of him _wants_ to. He's caused such pain for John, and he can recall all the hurt shown on John's face, covered by rage and complexity. He knew John would react somewhat like this, and he was once afraid that John would never want to speak with him again. So the fact that he's still willing to see Sherlock – and as soon as tomorrow – is both a blessing and a curse.

He curls up, feeling more unwelcome tears about to make their way to his eyes. The pain from his nose and cheek burn again, and he buries his face into the sheets.

_Sleep, Sherlock. You need it. Just stop thinking for once. _He tries to pray, and it seems like his mind can communicate fine with that thought, because when he blinks his eyes again, he's sleeping.

XXX

Sherlock goes back to his original appearances the next day and in some way, he'll miss having not to shave properly and being a hair different colour he never knew he would get used to.

John is one to quickly note how Sherlock reverted when he enters the doctor's flat. He explains his whole side to the story, with a heavy heart, having a go to not cry again at the mere thought John might still reject him.

John bitterly replies and he soon grasps onto the true concept, and Sherlock feels a bit more content. He analyses John, watching him eventually calm down and accept what has happened.

When they lock eyes, Sherlock wants to kiss John, kiss him until they're both breathless, but he restrains himself from completing such a wanting task.

And the doctor pops the question regarding Sherlock's true feelings. He complies, saying 'yes' and yes, he does love John and probably will forever. He says it with what he hopes is his heart on his sleeve, but he isn't sure shows it properly.

"I am so, _so_ sorry, John. I'm going to set things right. The worst has passed, I promise you. And now all that is left is to mend _us_."

He means it. He honestly does. He says it with as much passion and love, and he wants John to know it. And Sherlock finds himself breaking down his calm facade, when he utters his dearest apologises to John for the second time. Although, he doesn't cry because breaking down in front of another person, especially after he had with _Mycroft _of all people the previous night, would be too much.

"I said 'shut up,' and I meant it."

John silences him with a kiss, and Sherlock feels all the hurt go away. _Oh God, yes – _this is what he's always wanted. Him and John. Finally together. No more dancing around one another with disguises and lies. _This _is what he truly wants.

Sherlock mirrors the same movements as John, kissing him back. They fight for dominance, as they continue to kiss, all the admiration washing away and their bodies move on it's own accord with wanting and lust.

Sherlock finds his surroundings when his back hits the kitchen table and John opens his eyes as they stare at one another, trying to catch their breath. Their lips are on each other again in seconds and their moans and groans overlap the room.

John lightly brushes his teeth against Sherlock's bottom lip, humming at their touch. Sherlock feels his body go limp, allowing John to take control. He moans as John lifts him up onto the kitchen table, disregarding their beverages and the fact the bedroom isn't very far away, and Sherlock wonders if _this _will go on any further.

And he thinks back on when him and John were snogging after John and 'Benedict's' date. Sherlock was always weary on the account of scaring John off, and he tries now to detect his movements, seeing if and when the ex-soldier might want to stop.

However, the way John's hands are roaming around Sherlock's body and how his lips are brushing roughly on his skin, claiming him with each kiss, there's no way he would stop now. And Sherlock finds himself utterly lost, and if he gets too carried away, he's not even if he would ask John to halt. He can't read through John's movements now, and he figures he'll just have to go with it.

"J-John..." Sherlock shudders, his voice sounds shaky.

The doctor steps back and he absently licks his lips in anticipation. He admires the messy display he's put the detective in; Sherlock's lips swollen red, his cheeks flushed, and a red mark from John's representation of love and want, blossoming on Sherlock's neck. He's never seen him like this before. Not even when he was 'Benedict.' "Yeah?" He breathes heavily.

_Are you sure you want to carry on with this?_ He wants to ask, but he feels a bit ashamed and embarrassed if he were to question John. So instead, he says the only thing that thumps deeply in his heart and his whole being whenever he looks back at his doctor. "I love you."

He swears that his heart could burst at any moment. He genuinely smiles at John, and the ex-soldier beams back, with the same amount of amity, because he is probably feeling the same way.

Nonetheless, John seems to take it as an invitation, as he discards the detective's shirt and moves his hands down to Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock jumps at the warm touch, hands falling to John's shoulders, gripping onto his clothing so tightly that he forgets he's sitting on the kitchen table. He smirks for a bit, placing warm and gentle kisses on John's forehead and a moan escapes from his mouth by the time John unzips his trousers.

"T-the kitchen, John!" Sherlock complains, his mouth hot against John's ear.

John glimpses at Sherlock with a cheeky smile. "Well, you better not make a mess, then, or I'm having you clean it."


	12. Chapter 12

**Dreaming: dammit, Anna, did I tell you not to let me write porn? WHY DID YOU PUT ME IN THIS SITUATION? YOU KNOW I GET CARRIED AWAY!**

**Aerorolo: Muahhahahaa at Ari. I am so sorry about the late upload. We're almost at the end now~ Just one more chapter after this one! Hope you enjoy it ;D **

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Chapter 12

* * *

><p>It's much like eating your favourite flavoured crisps. You mean to have one, maybe two, maybe only a handful; but then, the next thing you know, you are addicted to the taste and texture and are consumed with the desire to keep eating them and eating them until either your gut cannot handle them anymore, or the bag is empty, unable to give you more.<p>

Kissing Sherlock, touching Sherlock; it's very much the same concept.

With 'Benedict,' John continually held himself back because who he really wanted, who he truly missed and ached for, was Sherlock. And while, at the time, the man reminded John of him, John didn't want to replace him or turn the man into a substitute.

Now he feels like a bit of a fool for not seeing that it actually was Sherlock all along, and that he needn't have any reservations about it because it was all right to act on the impulses he's been shoving down like second nature for years now.

Finally having this, finally knowing that it's okay to have it, to want it, to need it; it's, in many ways, more addicting that his favourite crisps. It's fulfilling for John in ways he didn't realise preciously that his body needed fulfilling. He knew before all of this, of course, that Sherlock left a cold space inside him when the detective 'died,' something dark and empty and sucking the life from him like a blackhole, but he hadn't realised that it's always sort of been there, a hole in his life, in his heart, in his very soul that only grew once whatever began filling it was stripped away.

That was Sherlock. All along, it has always been Sherlock. Sherlock completes John, and even if he didn't see it then, he sees it now, and that's what matters.

But that only makes him hungry to get closer, _closer, __**closer.**_ To want moremore_more_.

Each touch beneath his fingertips, each taste with his tongue and lips, and John aches for more and more, and in his dizzy state of mind, he really can only relate it to crisps, and it's absurd enough to make him want to smile, and so he does, lips spreading into a grin across Sherlock's skin, over the warmth of his sternum, his heart fluttering in time with John's, felt through John's thin lips.

And he can't hold back any longer. He doesn't need to; this is Sherlock, _real and alive _Sherlock, and the barriers between them – the disguises, the lies, the guilt, the protectiveness – are crumbling down, and John finally feels free to act on the love he's felt for this borderline insane man for what feels like a lifetime, now.

He worries, of course, that Sherlock might want him to stop, and he even worries that Sherlock will make John stop because he thinks John is unsure whether or not he wants this, which is the most worrying of all, because can't Sherlock see how much John loves and wants him? Isn't it evident from all the pain? Love begets pain, after all. The two go hand in hand, and while it is a bit tragic, it makes it all worthwhile in the end, in John's opinion.

"The kitchen, John," Sherlock mutters hotly against John's ear and John presses closer, seeking heat and friction and _togetherness, _the edge of the table digging into his half-hard erection and making him wince.

"Well, you better not name a mess, then, or I'm making you clean it," John jokes as he grabs Sherlock by the upper thighs, yanking him closer, nearly lifting him up. Sherlock gasps subtly and grips John's shoulder's tighter, and John can feel the quake of adrenaline and lust in those long-fingered hands, and _God, _he would fuck Sherlock coarsely and without remorse right here on the table if it weren't inconvenient for both of them, and promised bruises.

But he does, however, continue sliding Sherlock's trousers down over his thighs (they fall the rest of the way, and John can hear them plop onto the kitchen floor) until he can kiss a line up to Sherlock's briefs. He hears Sherlock's breath hitch, and he can feel Sherlock's fingers threading into his blond/gray hair. He presses a couple kisses to Sherlock's navel, nose brushing his belly button for a moment. Then, he glances up, fingers touching just below Sherlock's hips, over the last of his clothing, silently asking permission, because he knows this is sudden, and Sherlock is naturally a private person, so this has to be okay, or John won't do it.

Sherlock bites his lip and nods his head, and that's all the consent the ex-soldier needs.

John helps Sherlock lift his hips and lean back on the table as he removes the offending garment, and if John marvels a little bit at a fully nude Sherlock displayed before him on his kitchen table for a moment too long, Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, not even enough to flush more than he already is with arousal.

The urge to dip his head down and take Sherlock immediately into his mouth is almost overwhelming. He licks his lips and glides his hands over Sherlock's skin instead. One hand lingers at the small of Sherlock's back, pressing him forward, and the other curls around the base of Sherlock's erection, thumb rubbing along the lower shaft and John's eyes study Sherlock's reaction – lidded eyes, pupils blown wide, heart-shaped lips parted, breathing shallow and muted – and he licks his lips again.

"Do it," Sherlock breathes, reading John's mind, most likely, from the constant flicker of tongue over his lips. Sherlock swallows, and his eyes fall shut. "Don't make me say 'please.'"

John smirks a bit at that, fingers still deftly playing with Sherlock's length in his hand, his other hand's digits fingering the knobs of Sherlock's spine.

Then John gives in. He lowers his head and wraps his lips around the tip, and he hears Sherlock let out a low moan, head most likely tipping back in ecstasy.

John works him slowly, his tongue laving up the head, swirling under and around the glans, his hand stroking foreskin, and John thinks it's all he can do not to moan around the taste of Sherlock in his mouth. It's different and intoxicating, and while he feels a bit out of his league, Sherlock seems pleased enough if the noises and huffs he's making are any indication.

"John," Sherlock calls out, one of his hands lifting from the table where he's been supporting himself, and touches John's hair. "I can't… last very long, with you doing that."

"Hmm," John hums thoughtfully, and it earns another low moan from his partner. He slides his mouth from the half of Sherlock he had been able to fit into his mouth (and he considers distantly if his soft palette was made specifically to accommodate Sherlock or if that is simply his imagination) and peers up at the taller man, who is panting a bit and looking desperate. And Sherlock desperate for anything other than a new case is something John hasn't seen before, and he finds is dangerously attractive. "What would you like me to do?" he asks, his voice thick with seduction, but at this point, it's hardly necessary.

Sherlock grabs John's face and John leans up so not to get hurt during the rug, and their lips crash together and he feels the thrill of Sherlock nipping at his bottom lip and plunging his tongue into John's mouth for a fleeting second before Sherlock parts, keeping their faces close, and replies, "What I have in mind requires a bed. A softer surface is more conducive than a table in a room full of messy, breakable objects, don't you agree?"

"I guess I do, but only because I want to know what that genius head of yours is cooking up."

The look that flashes across Sherlock's face is something almost sad; it's as though he is beyond relieved that John is already back to calling him brilliant and a genius and the like after what he's done. But he should know that while John can't ever forget what happened between them, part of him already has forgiven Sherlock for it; a large part of him, in fact, and it's not just the lust speaking (although that is certainly a factor).

Sherlock hops down from the table, leaves his clothes, and walks stark naked and fully erect toward John's room. John's eyes shamelessly trail after the pale man. John starts stripping himself as he walks, discarding items of clothing so that when they arrive at John's bed and Sherlock turns around to face his former flatmate, John can appreciate the look of mind surprise (he must have only been vaguely aware of the sound of John's discarded clothes, thinking too dismissively of it) on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock is too quick for John; the second he sees him, he grabs John and their bodies collide and John groans pleasantly as their erections rub raw together and their hipbones meet, the dry, warm friction incredibly delicious. And the feeling of their chests bare and subtly twitching with each slight move of their muscles is heady. John's hands are in every place at once on Sherlock's body, grappling for his bum and ribs and waist and shoulders and trying to map out all the muscles in his back while still coming back to thumb over Sherlock's nipples.

Sherlock is just as eager, just as handsy, but his eyes are far more hungry than his hands; he is raking his eyes up and down John's form repeatedly, as if he's gathering data at such a lightning speed that his pupils can't even keep up. And then they land on John's throat and still for a moment, and then Sherlock's mouth is attacking John's collarbones and Adam's apple and ear, and John grips Sherlock's biceps tightly and moans deeply and feels his hips react, rutting against Sherlock's manhood without relent.

Sherlock's fingers are digging almost painfully into John's hips and the top of his arse, and his mouth switches sides to cover the other half of John's neck and his other ear, and then there's a nip at the junction between neck and shoulder, and John cries out.

"Did I hurt you?" Sherlock says immediately, pulling his head away. His emotions are so open and frequent that it's a wonder if part of the 'Benedict' act wasn't an act at all, but was instead Sherlock letting himself be himself as he is inside.

"No; God, no. Felt so good. Do it again," John says with a quick shake of his head, his breathing ragged. They're still standing at the foot of John's bed, wrapped in each other's arms with the backs of Sherlock's legs pressed against the footboard. It would be so easy to topple the detective over, kicking his legs out from beneath him, and having his knees hang over the footboard while John went down on him. But he keeps those thoughts at bay, trying to remind himself that they have all the time they need, all the time in the world, and don't need to rush like that, don't need to be greedy and violent like that, even though something in Sherlock's eyes tells John that he wouldn't mind if they did get a little rougher.

Obediently, Sherlock tilts his head back down and runs the ridge of his teeth along John's skin, sending shivers down his spine, before he finds a meaty place and bites down softly. John arches into Sherlock, fingertips pressing hard and running down Sherlock's back, leaving temporarily pink marks neither can see, but is surely felt on both ends.

"What was… that idea of yours?" John asks breathlessly, his own mouth seeking purchase on the sensitive skin of Sherlock's nipple. Sherlock keens and he thrusts against John's lower stomach, partially lifting the doctor onto his toes so their hips meet again.

"Oh, God," Sherlock breathes as he his head falls backward. When he regains more of his thought processes, John hears him admit quietly, "I wan– _need _to have you, John."

"And I give myself over gladly," John whispers, and he guides Sherlock 'round to the side of the bed so they can climb onto it, Sherlock lying on his back and peering up at John with sincerity so intense on his severe face that John has to look away for a moment. He turns it into the excuse of reaching into his bedside table for some unscented lotion, the sort he uses on average evenings as lubrication for his masturbation habits.

He kisses Sherlock in a manner than can only be described as amorously while he squeezes lotion out into his hand. He breaks the kiss long enough to rub his hands together, warming the lubricant, and then he's kissing Sherlock again, the dark-haired man pulling him close and settling him between his legs.

Sherlock makes a strange noise when John circles his fingers around the paler man's entrance. John hasn't even slipped a digit in yet, and he doesn't know what to make of that sound. "You're sure about this? I don't want you to force yourself into anything because I want it, and –"

"You talk too much, John, and you say nothing when you do," Sherlock replies throatily, and he taking John's hand by the wrist and caresses it in a way that bring the first knuckle of John's middle finger into the pressured, heated space, and John nearly chokes at how it feels around the tip of his finger; he can't imagine how it will be around his entire prick.

"I'll take it, then, that sound meant something else," John whispers, not trusting how his voice will sound if he speaks any louder. He slides his finger in deeper, to the second knuckle, and twists it side to side gently. Sherlock's eyelids flutter.

"Yes; good deduction, John," Sherlock replies huskily. His hips urge John to add more, give him anything more. John slowly works in his second finger and shallowly thrusts the two in and out, massaging the ring of muscle and rubbing the velvety insides. Sherlock groans and his head lolls back, his breaking picking up to new levels. "God, yes," he breathes.

There are the occasional scrunches of Sherlock's face that make John slow his movements and give time for adjustment – be can only imagine the slight burn, the oddness of intrusion – but following those is always a moan of pleasure, so he doesn't let up.

John goes as far as three fingers before Sherlock is whimpering, pelvis jerking desperately, and the doctor decides it's high time he complies to the unspoken words behind those scrumptious noises.

Sherlock lowers his knees from where they're bunched up to his chest and spreads them wide, feet braced on the mattress. John leans over Sherlock, kissing his face as he manoeuvres himself into place, his length lubed and rearing to go.

"Ready, love?" he asks quietly, hand still working the lotion over himself. And the term of endearment slips out before he even registers that he's even thinking of it at all, let alone about to say it.

Sherlock wears one of his impatient faces, as if he can't believe John is being so careful with him when he had been, not moments ago, ready to forgo the bedroom and fuck Sherlock on the table.

John doesn't hesitate any longer, then. He starts in slow, using all his military-earned self-control not to plunge directly in without warning. He eases in, and he wishes he could say he were a thoughtful enough man to watch Sherlock's face for signs of pain as he does so, but it feels too good and the sight of watching his prick disappear into the world renown detective is too erotic to pass up. John's gaze remains between them until his neck cramps and he can no longer see himself, and can feel the heated pressure on all sides, enveloping him.

The doctor groans and drops his forehead to rest atop Sherlock's mop of hair as the other man clings to John, legs winding around him and arms braced against John's chest. John's trembling, he can feel it, and he waits patiently for the signal to move.

Sherlock makes a hissing noise, and slowly, John can feel him relax all over, sinking back onto the bed and dropping one of his arms. "_Go,_" he commands, and John doesn't need to be told twice.

He rocks to and for at first, building up a rhythm, sliding in and low in increments until Sherlock is writing on the bed and pleading for more. John delivers; he starts pistoning his hips, angling just-so. His thrusts become a bit erratic, but even so, Sherlock's hand is in his mouth and he's rocking his hips up to meet John's every move, his eyes lidded but observing carefully.

And it's the goddamn best moment of John's life. He wants to treasure this for as long as he lives, because this, right here, is irreplaceable. Seeing Sherlock Holmes come apart beneath him, flushed and panting and babbling nonsense and eagerly taking John into his lithe body and demanding _… _It's glorious. John never wants to forget this.

He feels himself reaching climax like the thrill of approaching the first hill of a roller coaster. His gut flips pleasantly, and tingling, icy-heat is coursing through his veins in waves, and everything feels heightened somehow, as if he can hear every breath and heartbeat and thought going through Sherlock, as well as every pound of his own heart and beat of his own lungs, the churning of the gears in his own head. It's a breathtaking non-melody that John wants to memorise and categorise and keep locked away for safekeeping.

Sherlock cries out, nearly screaming John's name, and John realises with a burst of blissful arousal that he's hit Sherlock's prostrate and Sherlock is coming in thick strands between them, slicking their bellies and making the friction of their hips and legs and the slide of their chests wonderfully filthy and smooth, and that's it, John can't handle much more stimuli than this. He shudders and pounds uncontrollably into Sherlock, movements jagged, making Sherlock moan wildly from the over-sensitivity of it all, and John's member slips out just as he ejaculates.

Sherlock mumbles something, panting heavily, but the rush of blood in John's ears is almost ringing, and solidly deafening. He gasps and rolls onto his back, lying beside Sherlock, whom is curling onto his side to face John.

They lay like that for a while, messy and breathless, until their bodies cool down thanks to the natural habit of perspiring during intercourse. Finally returned to themselves, Sherlock sits up first, propping himself onto one elbow, and leans down to press a feather-light kiss to John's sweaty brow.

It's like an unspoken thank-you, and John blinks, clearing his mind, and looks as Sherlock in wonder.

"…I guess this means I forgive you," John adds softly, smiling lazily. "But don't think you're off the hook. I expect to see a lot more of you now that this God-awful business is over."

"Was it really so bad, dating me?"

"You know what I meant," John sighs, throwing an arm over his eyes.

"Well, of course. Moriarty's men are a given. But was all of it entirely awful?" Sherlock murmurs, settling down with his face a breath away from John's scarred shoulder.

"At the time I didn't think so," he admits, "But after I knew? Yeah, kind of bloody awful, Sherlock. Definitely 'Not Good.'"

"I am sorry. You know that," Sherlock adds.

"Yes. And I forgive you, I do. But if you think you can pull anything this horrifically drastic on me again, you won't get sex next time, even if it's fucking incredible and I plan on doing it again, as frequently as possible. – Er. Point is, don't be a ruddy dick and I might just, you know, love you forever. Or something," John says, beginning to feel the exhaustion seep in. He wants to sleep. He wants to shower, too, and he might muster up the strength for that before sleeping. _Might. _

"I will try in earnest not to anger you too severely," Sherlock promises honestly. He touches John's face, and John removes his arm from his eyes and peers over at Sherlock. "But I can't say I won't ever may you angry, because we both know that is impossible. But I will… be more considerate of the probabilities of your reactions to the actions I wish to take at any point in the future."

"That is all I ask for," John grins tiredly. He groans and sits up. "Ah, now. I think we ought to clean off and get some sleep." He tenses. "You'll…" He swallows and refuses to look at Sherlock directly. "You'll stay, won't you? You've nowhere to be running off to?"

"I doubt I could run anywhere if I wanted to at the moment," Sherlock retorts with a smirk in his voice, but no energy for one on his face. He rolls onto his back and gets a good view of the ceiling of John's bedroom. "But of course I am staying, John. I would even like to eventually either move into this flat with you or re-lease our old flat on Baker Street, since I am quite fond of it, and of Mrs. Hudson."

"I think that could be a plausible future for us," John agrees, relieved, and returns his gaze to the man he just made love to (and God, does he like that thought so very much). "But in the present, this isn't comfortable," and he gestures down at their current state.

Sherlock shrugs. "It's part of the body's natural functions. Nothing very disgusting about that."

"Not to you, but I can't sleep when I'm sticky with sweat or _anything else, _and I'd very much like a shower, and I refuse to sleep with someone who'll get me dirty again. So up you go; I'll help bathe you."

Sherlock chuckles airily, wincing slightly as he sits up, and nods. "Very well, very well; as you insist, _Dr._ Watson."

John laughs, hauling Sherlock up to lean against him where they stand beside the bed. Thankfully, John notes, not much is on the sheets. It'll only need a little spot-cleaning. "What did I say about being a dick?"

"Giving sass is not being a dick," Sherlock corrects as he stumble-walks with John to the bathroom. The bath is a shower-tub combo, and works very well for their needs. John doesn't bother with the light; it would be too intense with their drowsiness anyhow. They climb inside and John runs the water, and its comforting warmth is like being in a womb, cosy and dim and all around him.

John washes them both up, having more energy of the pair of them for more reasons that sex position (what has Sherlock's eating and sleeping habits been like without John to remind and force him to do either on a regular basis?).

In the end, cleaned and both wearing pairs of John's pyjamas, they climb back into bed. Sherlock doesn't snuggle or curl up like a satisfied cat, much like John thought he might. Instead, he lies down on his back, brings the covers only halfway up his body, and closes his eyes, his hands on the pillow, raised above his head.

John, then, decides to be the cuddler. He worms his way into Sherlock's side and rests his head on the dark-haired man's chest and sighs contentedly as he shuts his own eyes.

Really, John's just glad that Sherlock is alive and well, and that they can, perhaps, reshape what they had before, improving it by keeping the best parts of their relationship and adding the even better ones now that this door concerning love has been opened and scratched on the surface. And the doctor is very much looking forward to exploring what he and Sherlock can have. It won't be a regular romance by any means, he knows, because it never has been; but it will be irregular in all the right ways that suit the two of them, he likes to think.


	13. Chapter 13

**Dreaming: Hey guys, here we are, at the end of things. It's been so fun writing all the even-numbered chapters of this, like you have no idea. And even though I can't reply to your reviews, I am so thankful to each and every one of you for doing so, and to any of you who favorited this story! So thanks. :D**

**Aero: Hello, everyone! Like what Ari mentioned before, it's been so much fun writing down the odd-numbered chapters. Words cannot describe how enjoyable it was to write with Ari again! Thank you so much for your support for this fic! We are so grateful for all of your reviews, alerts and favourites! You make me speechless sometimes. I feel like I can't say anything but to say 'thank you'. You're so awesome and thank you to umqraisntmorsecode for sending me this prompt. We had a lot of fun writing it and I'm sad to see it go already sob Thank you for reading :')**

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Chapter 13

* * *

><p>Waking up the following day isn't hard as he originally thought.<p>

When the detective wakes up, he first thinks that last night and John forgiving him is all a dream. But as he collects his surroundings and the soft and gentle sounds receding from the sleeping man beside him, Sherlock corrects himself.

He doesn't want John to fall out from his pleasant dreams, so he remains on the bed, feeling content about his life. He stares at John, examining the doctor's features, as if John is a reminder of how greatly their lives have changed just by simply asking this particular person to be his flatmate. _Ohhh, how times have changed. _

Time isn't really a problem at the moment for Sherlock, and he reminds himself that he hasn't had any indication of time. He peers back at John's bedside clock and he's a bit surprised he didn't wake up any later or sooner. It's late afternoon and the sun has managed to leak through the blinds from the window. Sherlock likes the way the sun's rectangular form illuminates the room, highlighting John's sleeping figure.

He finds his attention back to John. His eyes tracing up and down, deducing and collecting more information about the latter. And who can blame him? He hadn't be able to do it properly in a while (plus, second nature).

Not too long ago, when he was once 'Benedict,' he had dully noted how exhausted John had looked, as if he's aged five years in three years, and as the days went on, John looked a bit fresher. And now, the ex-solider appears to taking a rest – one that anyone can long for, after a tiring and unending day or maybe _years_ – as if John has been in a long battle, for rest and sleep.

Now the doctor is sound asleep, having it claim him with such luck.

The first nap in years, perhaps.

And maybe going into slumber is a good thing for these two because the pair needs it as much as they can. After all of those years, being in hiding, and with all the lies (which Sherlock hopes for John to surpass someday), they can finally have some shuteye from all of the surveillance cameras, nightmares, longing for one another, before going forward for some new challenges and cases.

_Oh, yes, cases. _Sherlock hums to himself, in anticipation. He props himself on his elbows, his eyes refusing to leave the doctor's side.

_We can go back to Baker Street. Give Mrs Hudson and Molly a call. Converse with Lestrade about some new cases. Investigate more. _As usual, his brain is heading full speed with the thought of him and John going back to what they used to do.

Something John has accompanied the latter with, as if it was made for him: running around in London and out, just him and Sherlock. New cases, new faces, and maybe a game.

Like a fly buzzing transversely in the bedroom, a tiny thought – no, memory – of Moriarty, the consulting criminal, commands Sherlock to hold his breath.

It feels awfully silly to feel such trepidation because one man. _But _this man, criminal, a spider in the corner of any room, caused him to take such action. Threaten to rid his few and only _friends_. It's a bit pitifully to have such need and want for others, but Sherlock has to remind himself that he _needs_ them.

Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, and (espcially) John are all essential.

Sherlock can lie about it to Mycroft or to anyone else, but he knows it's true.

Then why should he feel in denial about the whole thing?

Well, he doesn't have to say it from his own mouth. Only when he's alone with John, can he make up for it all.

_Oh yes, John... _He peers back at his doctor, after realising that he was too deep in his musings, he was boring his eyes into the wall.

Sherlock finds himself beaming at the latter, and he can't help himself when he closes the gap, kissing John on the forehead.

"What time is it?" John asks, weakly, possibly still half-awake.

"Three in the afternoon." Sherlock states matter-of-factly, giving his lover more meaningful kisses.

"Sherlockkk..." he moans, turning his back to the detective. "Let me sleep some more."

A low chuckle escapes Sherlock's throat when he stands up from the bed, admiring John once more. When the bed gives up half of its weight, John blinks his eyes open, viewing the other with a smile, over his shoulder.

"Hello." He says, after he clears his throat. And he sounds like it's the first time they've ever met but Sherlock knows he means well. More like their first meeting in what feels like forever. Properly, face-to-face, at least, and Sherlock feels his chest tighten with remorse and yet overwhelmed with joy at the same time, so much so that he can finally be at the stage where he aspired to be for a while.

"I'll make us some tea," Sherlock announces, with a nod. "Unless you want to go back to sleep." He jokes and John laughs slightly at the remark.

"Tea is nice. Coffee is stronger, and therefore, better," John replies. "Might as well get out of bed sooner or later."

"Good."

As Sherlock manoeuvres out of the room, he hears his own name stringing out from John's mouth.

He spins around and John is already out of bed, looking far fresher than he has resembled in days. "Yes?" Sherlock questions with a cocked brow.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck, presenting him with an afternoon kiss. _Ooohh yes – _Sherlock almost forgot in the span of his thoughts how it feels to kiss John with his inviting and warm mouth. His hands immediately land on John's hips, urging the doctor to deepen the kiss. Somehow, Sherlock schools himself not to frown when John pulls back with a wide and cheeky smile, something that can light up the room. Sherlock almost feels helpless at his will.

"Yes?" He tries again, trying not to lose his composure or his patience.

"I love you, too." John finally answers, with warm eyes.

He doesn't register it in time, when his body automatically moves. Sherlock shoves John back onto the bed, hands roaming, kisses claiming him with his mouth and John whimpers in response to it all.

Their forthcoming beverages are already forgotten because they know they have all the time that they need. So there was nothing wrong, disregarding their afternoon tea – or, in this case, coffee – this one time.

XXX

"Cheers~!"

Raised glasses makes a strange soothing sound, as they chime against one another's surface, being lightly tapped by their holders. Applause is made with meaningful claps and even a party popper gets popped and its colourful streamers float in the air.

The atmosphere is bright and blissful with the small number people in the living room. It's not even close to Christmas, but it seems like Sherlock and John are celebrating something far more than returning back to their old flat.

"Welcome back to Baker Street, lads!" Greg whoops, taking a sip of the champagne Mycroft brought for the occasion.

"Thank you. It's nice to back at home!" John grins as he and the detective inspector give each other a high five in the air. He gestures to the place, with the glass in his hand. "It _really _is great being back here again! You have no idea."

"I've missed you boys, with all of your fighting and going all over the place! It wasn't the same when you two were gone." Mrs Hudson adds as he points at John. The doctor returns a bashful nod to their landlady. "And after all this time, I thought Sherlock was dead!"

"Oh, yes..." John smiles again before looking over at Sherlock, who is occupied in the kitchen, surprisingly with his older brother. He faces Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Greg again, who are all wearing uncertain expressions, frightened that John would become overcome with emotion or something of the sort. However, John isn't even close to tears, and if he were, it wouldn't be about him being upset, it'd be him feeling complete. Him and Sherlock. _Together_ again. "Well, he does have his tricks up his sleeves. Let's hope he doesn't do it again, eh?" He regards to the whole reason why he left Baker Street. He winces slightly, thinking about Moriarty forcing Sherlock to die, and Sherlock choosing to fake his death. And he doesn't want to remember it. Not now, not anymore. Not when they're finally back to how things were, but better. "Who wants more champagne?" He changes the subject. "I believe Mycroft has spoiled us too much with this! We should make the most of it!"

"Oh, yes, please!" Molly nods, and John picks up the bottle from the coffee table and pours more into her glass. "Thank you, John!"

"No problem."

"It looks like they're getting along quite well." Molly shifts her eyes to the kitchen. John follows her gaze and turns back.

After raising their glasses up to celebrate their return, Sherlock toddled into the kitchen in haste, Mycroft lingering behind him. From afar, it looked like they were arguing, and in some way, they could be. However, they are less resentful toward each other, now, and John can not only see, but also _feel_ the change whenever Mycroft is in the same room as the two.

Sherlock seems to have lessened his hurtful way of speaking to Mycroft. When the older Holmes came over to help Sherlock and John remove his things from the detective's flat, he didn't even bat an eyelash, not saying a word to send the latter away.

It's hard to explain to those who haven't seen the Holmes brothers together previously. The only thing John can describe their relationship is by saying there is a lot less tension and awkwardness. No one has to jump across to the other side of the room, in fear of getting caught in the crossfire. They aren't hostile anymore, but the small, sly comments would pop up and the older Holmes brother didn't wear a displeasing face or the look of judgement.

They're now acting like _brothers_.

Something John couldn't even imagine to see.

And it isn't even Sherlock and Mycroft's approach to one another that changed, but also Mycroft's accession toward John. Mycroft no longer has that eerie chill whenever Sherlock leaves them alone to attend an importance of a case.

John doesn't need to feel awkward, and it's nice to have his boyfriend and other Holmes be less crude. And no matter how strange the sighting is, he has to get used to it sooner or later. And that gives him a warm and nice feeling whenever he catches them standing near one another.

Nevertheless, it can't compare to the overwhelming feeling John gets when he's with Sherlock.

"Yes, yes, they are..." John hums as he drinks. And Molly looks delighted to hear the response. "Never thought it'd happen, but it did," he chuckles.

Molly smiles. "Them getting along?" She urges.

"Yeah."

"I guess it takes some time for siblings to get along, right?" Molly says, but later winces when she remembers John has yet to talk to Harry. "Oh, bugger! I'm sorry! I didn't mean – _crap_ – I just… oh, John, I'm sorry!" She stammers and John gives her a reassuring smile, as he pats on her shoulder.

"It's okay." He laughs and tries not to let it get to him. "I should see what they're actually doing in there. They've been taking a while." Molly smiles through her guilt, as John strolls into the kitchen, sighting Sherlock throwing a fork at the older Holmes.

So, maybe, they're not getting along as he thought they were...

"Shit!" Sherlock yammers, when Mycroft manages to catch the flying fork in time. He turns to John, ignoring Mycroft, and leans toward the doctor, granting him a kiss on the forehead. "I thought you were talking to Molly."

"I was, but I felt a bit jealous that my boyfriend is hanging out with his brother!" John jokes and Mycroft frowns slightly. "What was happening a second ago?" He gestures in the thrown fork's direction.

"I wanted to see how fast someone could catch a flung piece of cutlery!" Sherlock replies and John cocks a brow at him. "What?" Sherlock says and he's close to sounding like a child, being caught in an act. "We got a new case, if that's what you're thinking about."

"I wasn't thinking about that." He retorts, as he takes Sherlock's hands into his. Mycroft turns to converse with Greg by the time John eyes the room to see where the other Holmes went off to so quickly. "It's a bit amusing to see you and Mycroft getting along."

"We're not." Sherlock frowns instantly. "Meeting each other halfway is as close we can get to 'getting along.'" The detective regards in a flat tone, but he means no harm when he walks toward the fridge. "Go back into the living room. It's time for dessert!"

John starts to get the plates and cutlery out for the necessary task and walks into the next room to see everyone, sipping their champagne.

Even though Sherlock has stopped being 'Benedict,' John had once bothered his boyfriend about his bakery skills and Sherlock explained to him how the stories about his childhood were true. And John had to mull over it and he laughed, thinking of how Mr and Mrs Holmes reacted to their son's baking.

_They probably thought they were going to make a pastry chef out of him! _He muses for a moment.

When Sherlock moved in with John, (before they went back to Baker Street), the detective went back to his old 'eating' habits and John tried to encourage him to eat more. (Sherlock attempted to improve his eating needs.) And John kindly asked for the detective to bake some more, because he really did love Sherlock's baking. The latter would always come to the doctor – if John came back from work or early in the morning or even late at night – with something new, ranging from cookies to pastries to cakes. He's come home and they would be in the fridge, with a note, Sherlock expressing his love for the other.

Sherlock doesn't at all mind baking for John. He loves to make new desserts for John to taste, and sometimes, when he gives John a plate of freshly made chocolate chip cookies or a slice of strawberry cake, he notes his lover's expressions, pleased to know he did his job very well. Even though they never got to do this before, Sherlock knows it's something new he can add into their schedule, mixed with cases and John's work.

"Did you make that, Sherlock?" Greg gapes at sight before him.

Sherlock presents one of his infamous lemon cheesecakes to his and John's guests, with a triumphant expression. "I would have bought it if that didn't require so much effort!" He scoffs and John nudges him in the stomach.

"To you, buying cheesecake requires more effort than making it?" John laughs.

"Of course." Sherlock says with no regrets, but he sounds so serious at his joking remark. John isn't sure if he should really take it seriously. Sherlock starts to cut slices for everyone as they continue to stare at the cheesecake. "Enjoy!" He speaks with a small smile on his face, as he passes it first to Molly.

John has to pause himself for a second to acknowledge Sherlock's approach to everyone. Perhaps it's only the group of them or mainly _for_ him, but it appears to the doctor that Sherlock's acting on his own will, a changed man, in part. Sherlock probably wants to show a bit of affection toward them from time to time because _this_ is the group of friends he sacrificed so much for; they are why he chose to fake his own death.

And maybe it is a bit astonishing that Sherlock can be 'human' for once, but it seems to work out for the lot of them. Perhaps it was 'Benedict' rubbing off on him, or just Sherlock being uncharacteristically nice. Nonetheless, the sight will forever stun him; the detective, it seems, still has tricks up his sleeves, more untold stories about him Mycroft, that John has yet to find out about. But in the end, Sherlock will be forever be… well, _Sherlock._

"Thank you, Sherlock!" Molly accepts the plate with a bewildered expression. "I never knew you could bake."

"It's nothing, really." He says back as he sits on one of the arms of John's chair.

"Don't be so modest." Mycroft retorts, as he takes a bite out of his own slice.

"Just eat, you dolt!" Sherlock snaps.

"This tastes really good, Sherlock!" Greg says with a full mouth, but anyone can make out his sentence by the joyful look on his face.

"Very delicious, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson giggles.

John takes his slice and leans into his armchair before glimpsing at Sherlock. "Aren't you going to have some?"

"Maybe later."

"You sure?" He offers the piece he forked out from the plate. "I can feed you," he suggests lowly, admiration laced in his tone.

"Maybe later." His boyfriend repeats himself, sounding very sure this time. And perhaps with some mischief, because Sherlock suddenly goes deep into his musings, possibly cooking up the next plan on what they should do the bedroom next time (_Eating things off of another's body is always pleasurable for both involved,_ he thinks).

"Oh, Sherlock…" John shakes his head. He looks back at everyone else in the room, engulfing their desserts and chatting away amongst themselves.

It's rare to see it, and if Sherlock could, he would take a photograph of it. Just _this_ moment, of everyone together. He feels his heart swell with affection for the people in the room. And perhaps they can have something like this again. It feels good. Maybe not too frequently, he realises, or else the 'magic' will be lost.

Is this how a family reunion is supposed to feel like?

If so, Sherlock thinks to himself how he wouldn't mind. Just this once. Then he could shower himself being with John everyday, and _oh yes_, that is something he doesn't mind having.

To obtain something – _love_,as it happens – that isn't quite tangible, save for with mere touches and words of tenderness, can prove to even the most heartless of them all or for those who are even incapable of such a feeling, that it's possible.

"Sherlock?" He hears John call.

"Hmm?" He returns to himself and feels John's fingers lace with his. "Was the cheesecake good?"

"It was scrumptious! Thank you, love." John smiles. "You okay? You've been thinking a lot. Want to share?"

"After this, when everyone takes their leave," Sherlock murmurs. "We can work on our new case!"

"Always the case before the sex, huh?" John sarcastically snickers.

"Oh no," The detective frowns. "Love-making can always be first, if you wish it." His frown is immediately washed away with an endearing smile. He pecks John's hand before he hears Mycroft cough, breaking their moment.

"Save that when we're gone, Sherlock." He picks an invisible fluff off his blazer.

"I do as I please!" Sherlock contemns.

"Oh, you can, I'm just saying you should at least wait for us to leave."

"There's nothing wrong with them expressing their love," Mrs Hudson joins in. "It's awfully cute! I haven't seen Sherlock like this before. So happy, more than with your serial killer cases. It looks good on you, dear."

Mycroft shuts his mouth but his lips quirk up a hidden smile (only for Sherlock to see). And when everyone turns away to helps themselves to their second or third slice, Sherlock and Mycroft catch each other's gazes. With a fast nod and a smile, they bring their focus into something else in the room, dismissing their previous conversation seconds ago; Sherlock informing John about their new case or Mycroft conversing with Greg, two brothers in a strange yet loving friendship.

Greg's phone signals everyone to be quiet in a matter of seconds. The detective inspector picks up and mutters a few things to Sally or Anderson on the other end of the phone. He shuts it and grabs his coat.

"Sorry! Something has come up!"

"Part of that new case?" Mrs Hudson asks.

"Yep!"

Sherlock almost bounces from the armchair. "Come on, John!" He doesn't need to be told that Greg needs him to accompany him. He stalks for his and John's scarf and coat, locating them on the coat hanger.

"Oh, I'm sorry for leaving." John says, with a frown. "But you know how this is."

"It's no problem. It's good to have things back to normal. Er– n-normal for our lives, anyway," Molly reassures him with a bright smile. "See you soon, boys."

"You can finish the cheesecake if you like, Mycroft!" Sherlock hails, throwing John's coat toward him.

"Back in Baker Street and a new case. It's like the good old days!" Mrs Hudson voices, with a wave of her hand. "Take care!"

"Don't have too much fun, Sherlock." Mycroft taunts.

Greg is already in his car by the time Sherlock and John make it downstairs.

The thrill, the danger, and the anticipation of a new case and a new event in the case boils in Sherlock's veins. He feels a bit reluctant if it means getting John into harm's way, though, but he knows it's electrifying for the latter, so it's all just as well. Then again, there's scarcely enough danger for the pair. They live and breathe it almost every day, and if harm does get in one's way, the other is always there as protection, and, at least, there's the comfort of knowing that no false deaths will be necessary again.

"You ready?" John asks after he zips up his jacket.

"Definitely!" Sherlock kisses him on the lips, before they hop into Greg's car, awaiting the developments of their new case.

Finite.


End file.
